


Sex, Lies and Cover Stories

by Kithri



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-18
Updated: 2014-10-18
Packaged: 2018-02-21 17:15:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 52,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2476067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kithri/pseuds/Kithri
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Natasha Romanoff wears many skins, pulling themselves around her like armour. She can be all things to all people, but who is she just for herself?</p><p>Christine Everhart is a journalist who has become a headline. Should she compromise who she is to ensure that her work is in the spotlight, not her?</p><p>Maybe the spy and the investigative reporter can answer these questions together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PhoenixFalls](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PhoenixFalls/gifts).



> My portrayal of Natasha Romanoff in this story is lifted pretty much directly from Fractures by Tamoline.

**Past: Christine**

Christine starts to laugh, but stops when she realises that Olivia Rodriguez isn’t joking. She frowns, starting to get that familiar sinking feeling.

“You can’t be serious,” she protests, willing her editor to change her mind. “*I’m* not the story here. I *write* the stories. The spotlight should be on my work, not on me.”

Olivia sits up straighter in her chair and takes off her glasses. Absently setting them down on one of the few islands of free space atop her desk, she fixes Christine with a level stare.

The bad feeling just gets worse.

“You became the story when you ended up in Tony Stark’s bed,” Olivia says acidly. “*This* is about damage control.”

* * * * *

**Past and Present**

Top five Google searches for Tony Stark:

Tony Stark Iron Man  
Tony Stark CEO  
Tony Stark party  
Tony Stark merchant of death  
Tony Stark naked photos

\- - - - -

Top five Google searches for Christine Everhart:

Christine Everhart hot  
Christine Everhart slut  
Christine Everhart naked photos  
Christine Everhart Tony Stark  
Christine Everhart journalist

* * * * *

**Past: Natasha**

Barton is waiting in the corridor outside Maria’s office. Not right outside; he’s a little way down the corridor, looking bored. Natasha figures he can’t have been waiting that long, or he would have progressed to doing something about his boredom. If that was the case, she’s pretty certain she would be able to tell.

He gets to his feet as she approaches.

“Done?”

(Natasha fades into the background.)

“Yeah,” says Tasha.

Clint doesn’t ask how it went, but then she would’ve been surprised if he had. Instead, he wordlessly holds up a bottle of vodka.

Tasha quirks an eyebrow at him.

“What’s that for? You trying to bribe me to take it easy on you?”

“Something like that,” he agrees easily. But she sees the way his eyes travel over her, assessing, and she’s acutely aware of the stiffness dogging her movements. She’s doing pretty well, all things considered, but some things take a while to recover fully from. Even for her. “I think I pulled a muscle or something.” The corner of his right eye twitches minutely as he says this — a sure tell that he’s embroidering the truth more than a little. “Would you mind if we give the sparring a miss and move straight on to the movie night?”

She gives him a flat look, letting him know that she sees right through his utterly transparent ploy. One of these days, she’s going to have pointed words with him about these inconvenient little bouts of protectiveness. There’s watching her back, and then there’s whatever this is. It’s lucky for him that it is only on occasion. And that she knows he’d go along with it if she insisted on sparring anyway.

But…

It’s not that she couldn’t fight if she had to, but sparring isn’t really at the top of her list of fun things to do right now. And since Clint is so kindly offering her an out, it would probably be rude not to take him up on it.

“I suppose I can skip kicking your ass just this once,” she says dryly. “Since you ask so nicely. But I hope for your sake that you’ve picked some good movies.” He screws up his face in a parody of intense thought. “What?”

“Well…” he says slowly, and then grins. “It all depends on how you define good…”

* * * * *

**Past: Christine**

Yep, there it is: the feeling that tells Christine the consequences of one of her less well-thought-out actions are coming right back to bite her in the ass.

Even as she marshals her arguments, she can’t help reflecting — with a certain bitter amusement — that of *course* this particular boomerang is about who she fucked and not, say, the ever-so-slightly shady methods she used to get her hands on certain supposedly inaccessible documents. Of course it is.

“That’s not fair, Olivia,” she says, careful to keep her voice calm and even despite the fact that she’s fuming inside. “First of all, whatever did or didn’t happen behind closed doors had absolutely nothing to do with my investigation.” The first rule of interrogations: never admit to anything, even if you did it. Maybe especially if you did it. “Second, what — or who — I choose to do in my free time is no one’s damn business but mine and theirs.”

“You’re right, it’s not fair,” says Olivia, still in that same flat tone. “But that’s how it is, and you know that better than anyone. When people see ‘Stark Industries exposé’ and your name, what do you suppose is the first thing that goes through their mind?” She raises her eyebrows, looking expectantly at Christine. Christine, feeling entirely too much like a schoolchild called into the headmistress’ office, grits her teeth and says nothing. “No?” Olivia murmurs. “Well, they’re not thinking ‘Pulitzer prize-winning investigative journalism, that’s for sure.”

“And you think this…” Farce. “This interview will help?”

Olivia shrugs minutely, picking up her glasses. She doesn’t put them on again yet, though, cleaning the lenses with a corner of her brightly-patterned jumper.

“It can’t hurt to remind people that you’re a damn fine journalist. That you got to this point through talent and drive.”

‘That you not just some vacuous bimbo who sleeps her way into a scoop,’ Christine mentally appends. Much as she hates to admit it, Olivia has a point. Yes, it’s unfair, but it is what it is, and maybe some damage control might not be a totally horrible idea. And if Olivia has approved this, it’s not too likely to turn out to be a hatchet job.

She hopes.

Besides, it isn’t as though being interviewed is something that happens to just *any* journalist.

A quiet sigh escapes her lips and she squashes the sudden, brief urge to cross her arms like a mutinous teenager.

“Okay,” she says, conceding with what she thinks is reasonably good grace. “Who have you got lined up for me?”

“Let’s see…” Olivia puts on her glasses and pulls up a list that Christine is reasonably certain she knows off by heart. Olivia’s memory for details is something of a legend around the office. “First up is a blogger from-”

“A blogger?” Christine blurts out, unable to help herself. “Seriously? I’m not even being interviewed by a real journalist?”

Olivia frowns. “Christine,” she says reproachfully. “I know you don’t mean that.”

Christine totally means that and would say a whole lot more, but from the look on Olivia’s face she wouldn’t be doing herself any favours. It’s not like she doesn’t appreciate the importance of the internet as a method of communication, but, well, *bloggers*. Might as well be interviewed by a one of the supermarket tabloids; probably not even a front-page story at that. No, that honour would go to: ‘I had Bigfoot’s baby!’

Actually, she supposes, maybe a blog *is* a step above a tabloid. Not that big a step, maybe, but a step nonetheless.

Besides, it doesn’t seem like she has a whole lot of choice here.

“You’e right,” she sighs, settling back in her chair and trying to look suitably repentant. “I’m sorry. Please go on.”

After all, the sooner she gets this over and done with, the sooner she can get back to her real work. She just hopes that these interviews don’t end up being too excruciating.

* * * * *

**Past: Nadia**

Nadia strides into the foyer of Vanity Fair Magazine’s New York office like she owns the place. She pauses for a moment, her mouth quirking into a wry little grin as she looks around with blatant appraisal, before heading purposefully towards the reception desk.

Before she can reach the desk, she’s intercepted by a young woman in heels and a business suit. The woman — late teens at most — looks a little like a child playing dress-up; an impression not helped by the way she keeps teetering on the heels that she’s clearly not used to wearing. Nadia is thankful, once again, for her comfortably stompy boots.

The woman looks her up and down, her smile faltering just a the tiniest bit. Nadia supposes that she’s not exactly their usual kind of visitor. Cargo pants, battered bomber jacket, bandanna — not to mention her boots with their buckles and straps — nose piercing, the edge of a tattoo peeking out over her collar… Hey, at least she wore a blouse, rather than one of her usual logo-bearing T-shirts. That counts as making an effort in her book.

“Nadia Vance?” the woman asks, sounding a little uncertain.

“That’s me,” Nadia replies, smiling as she holds out a hand for the other woman to shake. “And you are?”

“Oh!” The woman’s smile brightens again as she shakes Nadia’s hand. “I’m Jessica Chambers. I’m an intern here at Vanity Fair? I’m here to take you to Christine Everhart’s office?”

Nadia keeps back a grin at the way Jessica’s voice lifts at the end of each sentence, making her words a question. No need to make to poor thing any more nervous than she evidently is.

“Good to meet you,” she says pleasantly.

“Um, likewise,” Jessica says. “I just need you to sign in…” She picks up a clipboard from the desk, holding it out to Nadia like an offering.

“No problem,” Nadia says, taking the clipboard.

She scrawls a fairly illegible signature — the best kind — with the attached pen before handing the whole thing back. Jessica sets it back down without looking at it, swapping it for an ID badge she picks up from the bored-looking woman behind the reception desk. In bold letters, it proclaims the bearer to be ‘Nadia Vance, Visitor’. As she loops the thin chain around her neck, Nadia supposes that she should probably be glad they at least spelled her name right.

“Shall we go up?” Jessica asks.

Nadia resists the urge to say ‘I don’t know, shall we?’

“Lay on Macduff,” she says instead, gesturing vaguely towards the far end of the foyer.

Jessica blinks, gives a slightly confused smile, and leads Nadia into the belly of the beast.

* * * * *

**Present: Christine**

Christine recognises Jessica’s knock immediately — no one else is quite that hesitant. She feels a little sorry for the kid. She’s tried to put her at her ease, but Jessica seems to develop a serious case of the blushes when Christine so much as looks in her direction, let alone when she actually speaks to her. Well, it’s something Jessica’s going to have to get over if she’s going to become a journalist. There’s no room for timidity in this business; you can’t be backwards about coming forwards if you want to get the big stories. Christine had to learn that one the hard way.

Still, she has other things to worry about right now than Jessica. Jesus, she still can’t quite believe Olivia’s insisting on letting an *amateur* interview her.

She takes a quick glance around her office: enough clutter to indicate that work is going on here, but not so much as to appear slovenly. Perfect.

(Okay, technically it’s not *her* office per se. Not since Vanity Fair drank the Kool Aid of open plan office design and hot-desking. At least for anyone below the exalted status of senior editor. But, thankfully, the powers that be did allow a small number of private offices and meeting rooms — with actual doors that close, and desks *that* don’t feel like they’re going to fall to pieces if you so much as look at them crosswise — for the shared use of the peons. Sorry, journalists. This is the one that Christine tends to stake out most often.)

(She likes this office. It’s one of the smaller ones, and it’s a little oddly shaped due to being squeezed in as an afterthought, but it actually has a decent-sized window which gives a great view out over the theatre district. Working in here makes her actually feel like she might be an actual, honest to god journalist, rather than some kind of glorified intern.)

(Somewhere at the back of her mind, she wonders if that feeling of being temporary, of not being a proper grown-up with a proper job, will ever go away.)

Anyway, she doesn’t quite know why she’s bothering. This is a blogger, after all. *She* probably works from her bedroom. But that’s… not a helpful thought for Christine to have right now. She takes a deep breath, trying to push aside any residual anger about the fact that she has to do this. It won’t help anything if she’s gritting her teeth through this entire ordeal.

Maybe it would help if she stopped thinking of it as an ordeal.

Maybe some things are easier said than done.

“Come in,” she calls out, relieved that her voice seems free of irritation. That’s a good start.

The door opens, and Jessica sidles in, leading…

Oh. That would be her ‘interviewer’.

She plasters a smile over her face as she rises to her feet, hoping it doesn’t look nearly as fake as it feels; hoping it covers the sudden flare of temper that surges forward despite her best efforts to keep it back.

The woman couldn’t even be bothered to put on a suit? How is being interviewed by some… some slob with rudimentary typing skills supposed to help the image problem that she wouldn’t even have in the first place if it wasn’t for society’s goddamned double standards? Did Olivia really approve this? Did she know what she was letting Christine in for?

(Okay, if she was absolutely forced to tell the truth — like if someone had a gun to her head or something — Christine might have to admit that, from the examples she read, Ms Vance’s writing is somewhat above merely rudimentary. Some of it could even be considered insightful; maybe even witty. But that really isn’t the point right now.)

“Thank you, Jessica,” she says.

Jessica, predictably, flushes and ducks her head. “You’re welcome, Ms Everhart,” she mumbles. Normally, Christine might gently remind her that she’s more than welcome to call her ‘Christine’; might laughingly say that she doesn’t actually bite the heads off interns, no matter what the rumours say. But right now, Christine’s attention is focused on the woman sashaying past Jessica to stand directly in front of the desk, glancing around the office with a blatantly appraising air before fixing her gaze firmly on Christine.

”You must be Nadia Vance,” she says, holding out a hand for the other woman to shake.

“Must be,” Nadia drawls, her expression more smirk than smile. Her grip is surprisingly firm, her hands unexpectedly calloused. Despite herself — despite the irritation she keeps having to push back down — Christine finds her curiosity piqued.

“Do you need anything, Ms Everhart?” Jessica actually manages something like a normal speaking tone this time. “Refreshments or… anything?”

“I’ll have a coffee, please,” Christine says, then gives Nadia an enquiring look. “Would you like anything?”

“Green tea would be great.” Nadia turns her smirk towards Jessica. “If you’ve got it.”

“Um, I think we have some,” Jessica says. “I’ll check. Ms Everhart, you take your coffee with no sugar and a splash of cream, don’t you?”

“That’s right.” Christine resists the urge to say ‘just like every other time you’ve asked.’ She’s trying to make Jessica feel more confident about speaking up, not less, and she understands the desire to make absolutely sure that you’ve got something right. Even if you think you’re sure. “Thanks, Jessica.”

“Yeah, thanks Jess,” Nadia murmurs. (Somehow, Christine can’t bring herself to think of her as ‘Ms Vance’. She seems utterly ill-suited to anything that even remotely smacks of formality.)

Jessica tries to look at both of them, ending up focusing somewhere on the air between them.

“You’re welcome,” she says. “I’ll be back shortly with the drinks.”

As the door closes behind Jessica, Christine gestures to the chairs in front of her desk. “Please take a seat, Ms Vance.”

“Thanks.” She grabs the back of one of the chairs, and for a brief moment Christine bemusedly thinks she’s going to take her rather more literally than she intended, but she merely repositions it slightly before sinking into it. “And ‘Ms Vance’ makes me want to start looking around for my mom,” she adds, grimacing. “Please call me Nadia.”

“Well, if you’re Nadia, then I’m Christine.”

“Nice to meet you, Christine.” Nadia’s grin seems almost friendly, and for a moment — a brief, shining moment — Christine thinks that maybe this won’t be like pulling teeth after all. But then her expression twists into a smirk, her eyes twinkling as if she’s laughing at some private joke. “Chrissie?” she asks. “Or maybe Chris?”

“Christine,” repeats Christine, enunciating the word clearly, unable to keep her voice from freezing on the single word.

No one calls her Chrissie. *No one*. (Not any more. Not since college.)

Nadia shrugs languidly, somehow managing, with that simple gesture, to put Christine’s back up even more. “Whatever,” she drawls, sounding almost bored of the subject. Christine just about manages not to grind her teeth. “D’you want to get started right away, or should we to wait for Jess to bring up refreshments?”

What *is* it with this woman and her apparently pathological need to shorten other people’s names? Christine would give her a taste of her own medicine if she could think of suitable diminutive for ‘Nadia’ that she could say without feeling idiotic. Besides, she has the nagging feeling that even if she found one, all Nadia would do is smirk.

Well, smirk even more.

“Let’s get started now, shall we?” Christine says, keeping the smile on her face solely through sheer willpower.

“You’re the boss.”

From someone else — anyone else — those words might sound sincere. From this woman, Christine is sure they mean the exact opposite. Nadia bends down to root through her backpack, pulling out a battered and be-stickered laptop. Christine tries to study the designs without making it obvious that she’s staring. (Greenpeace. CND. Various other charities and activist groups. The ubiquitous smiley face. A biohazard symbol? What look like cartoon characters of some description…) From the way Nadia’s smirk widens fractionally when she looks back up, she’s not sure she’s entirely successful at keeping her perusal discreet. Christine’s half expecting the infuriating woman to plop the laptop on her desk without so much as a by-your-leave, but instead she slumps back in her chair and settles it across her lap.

Christine waits. And waits. But Nadia takes her sweet time getting settled, bringing up the relevant files, doing god knows *what* while Christine stews in her own impatience. Eventually, she can’t hold it back any longer.

“Whenever you’re ready,” she murmurs.

Nadia leans back and studies her, arching one eyebrow.

“Why Stark Industries?” she asks softly.

Not the question Christine was expecting, but that’s okay. She’s always been able to roll with the punches. Folding her hands loosely on the desk before her, she studies Nadia in turn, keeping her expression pleasantly neutral.

“Why Stark Industries what?” she asks. She’s pretty sure she knows what Nadia’s asking, but something inside her — whether caution, pettiness, or some strange mixture of both — wants to make the other woman spell it out.

Nadia shrugs, seemingly unfazed by the return question, but Christine doesn’t miss the sudden sharpness of her gaze. (Although she does wonder if it’s been there all along.)

“Why investigate them in the first place?” she clarifies. “There are other weapons companies, with worse reputations. Why go after this one?”

Not a bad question, Christine is forced to admit to herself. And not one that anyone other than Olivia had ever really thought to ask her before. She doesn’t answer right away, though, taking the time to think about her response before speaking.

“There were several reasons,” she says slowly, watching Nadia carefully to see her reaction. “There may be other weapons companies, but at the time SI were one of the biggest. They were certainly the one that got the lion’s share of US military contracts. And as for their reputation…” She gives a tight smile. “I had reason to believe they weren’t as squeaky-clean as they appeared to be.”

Interest sparks in Nadia’s eyes, making her look almost lively in spite of her lazy sprawl.

“You had a source?” she asks, typing something on her laptop. (Christine wonders how she manages to type at that angle. She can’t make up her mind whether it looks uncomfortable or terminally relaxed.)

Without really intending it, Christine’s smile becomes a little more genuine.

“I couldn’t possibly comment,” she murmurs. Nadia starts to say something else, but she’s interrupted by a knock at the door. “Come in,” Christine calls out, unsurprised when the door opens to reveal Jessica nervously clutching a tray.

“I’ve brought the refreshments,” she announces unnecessarily. “Sorry it took so long.”

Christine starts to reassure her that it didn’t, but then Jessica trips on something — a chair leg, perhaps? — and the tray tilts at a precarious angle, its contents starting to slide… Christine starts to get up, hoping to avert disaster, but Nadia reaches her first, apparently having managed to set her laptop aside and get to her feet in record time.

“I’ll just take this,” Nadia says. Suiting action to words, she slides the tray out of Jessica’s faltering grasp, and sets it down on the desk. Christine’s hackles rise at the presumption, but she forces them back down, telling herself she’s being unreasonable. It’s not like she wasn’t planning to do the same thing, after all, and it’s better than the contents ending up all over the floor.

“Um, thanks,” says Jessica, looking startled and slightly rueful. She turns to Christine. “Sorry.”

“That’s alright,” Christine tells her, sitting down again and giving Jessica what she hopes is a reassuring smile. “No harm done.”

“Do you want me to serve the drinks?” Jessica makes an uncertain move towards the tray, but Nadia waves her off before Christine can say anything.

“No, we’re good,” Nadia says, claiming her chair again. “Right, Chrissie?”

“Right.” Christine just about manages not to growl the word, but she can’t quite keep an edge from her voice as she continues: “And it’s Christine.”

“Sorry,” says Nadia, not sounding sorry in the slightest.

“So, should I just go?” Jessica asks, looking from Christine to Nadia and back again.

“Yes, that’s fine, Jessica. We can look after ourselves.”

With a final murmured apology, Jessica takes her leave. As the door closes behind her, Christine glances down at the tray. She’s amused, but not unsurprised, to notice that, in addition to the drinks, it also holds a plate of biscuits. Jessica is nothing if not thorough. Nadia reaches out and brazenly snags one right from under her nose, biting into it with a pleased sound.

“Looks like you stock the good stuff,” she says appreciatively.

Christine rolls her eyes.

“What were you expecting? This is Vanity Fair, not some internet café.”

Nadia shrugs. “Thought you’d all be too busy watching your figures to bother with nice biscuits.”

Her eyes flicker over Christine, then, and she could almost swear… Was Nadia checking her out? But even if it wasn’t ridiculous (somehow, she doubts that she’s this woman’s type), it’s completely irrelevant, so Christine pushes the thought aside and takes a biscuit of her own.

“I wouldn’t have thought someone who wrote ‘Paper Dolls’ would buy into that kind of stereotyping,” she says. She keeps her eyes on Nadia’s as she demolishes the biscuit in a few short bites, obscurely satisfied to see the other woman’s eyes widen slightly. Of course, an instant later she has to go and spoil it by giving a wry, pleased smile.

“So, you’ve been reading my articles,” she observes. It’s not really a question. Christine mentally kicks herself for letting that slip out.

“Research,” Christine says brusquely. “I like to know who’s interviewing me.” She picks up her coffee and takes a sip, savouring the rich taste. Tilting her head slightly, she eyes Nadia quizzically. Maybe there’s just a hint of challenge in her voice as she continues. “Are you surprised? You’re not exactly…” She purses her lips, letting her gaze flick dismissively over the other woman. “A name.”

(Okay, maybe her appraisal isn’t quite as dismissive as she’s intending, but that’s alright. It doesn’t mean anything. It certainly doesn’t mean that she’s noticed Nadia’s trim, toned figure, or the way her heavy — almost aggressive — eyeliner and mascara really brings out the brilliant green of her eyes. The contrast between her raven-black hair and ivory-pale skin has barely even registered, aside from as a general observation. She most certainly *isn’t* paying attention when Nadia licks her lips, which means she can’t have noticed the tongue piercing that briefly catches the light.)

(And she very definitely isn’t remembering the things that can be done with a tongue piercing. Or other piercings. Or remembering all the way back to her college days and the girl she ended up joining Greenpeace to get to know better. It worked, too. The Greenpeace membership ended up lasting much longer than the relationship did, but she’s never regretted a second of it.)

(She certainly gained a whole new appreciation for tongue-piercings.)

Nadia’s eyes flash with what might be either irritation or amusement (and Christine finds it infuriating that she can’t tell which). She takes her time before answering, though. Picking up one of the teaspoons, she stirs her tea and lifts out the bag, setting it down on the tray.

“Not surprised,” she says. Raising the mug to her lips, she blows on the hot liquid before taking a sip. “Mmm,” she says. “Not bad.”

“Glad you approve.” Christine doesn’t care that her voice is heavy with sarcasm. Nor is she surprised when Nadia merely seems amused at her expense.

Setting her mug down on the desk — Christine is surprised to note that she actually uses one of the coasters, rather than setting it down directly on the glass surface — she picks up her laptop again and opens it up.

“Now, where were we?” she murmurs, scanning the screen. “Ah, yes.” She lifts her gaze to Christine’s, and now it’s *her* voice that holds the challenge as she says: “Stark.”

* * * * *

**Past: Christine**

A thought has kindled in Christine’s mind, has been growing, turning from a spark into a raging bonfire. It starts when she goes over the pictures of the so-called ‘Iron Man’ with a metaphorical fine-toothed comb, when on a hunch she chases down some obscure little patents — joints and O-rings and nuts and bolts; little things, items no one would bother to hide. When she remembers that Tony Stark, for all his many, many, *many* flaws, really is a certified genius. (Not that she’d ever dream of telling *him* that. Unless it suited her purposes.)

She keeps it to herself at first, of course. Why wouldn’t she? On the face of it, it sounds ludicrous. Preposterous, even. Like anyone would believe *Tony Stark* of all people, could be a… Could be…

But the thought won’t go away, and the evidence mounts, and then there’s that fateful press-conference.

In hindsight, it might have been better *not* to push, to let him read his cue cards, deliver his neatly packaged story all tied up with a bow.

Who came up with that fairytale for him to tell, anyway? The soldier man at Tony’s side? Or Mr Suit-and-Tie watching closely from the periphery, from the shadows? Call it intuition, call it a plain old hunch, but she knows where she’d put her money.

(The woman she used to be, the angry young woman who thought actions, not words, were the only way to make a difference; that young woman knows a spook when she sees one.)

Yes, it might have been better to not to push, to let him tell his tales, to act like she believed and then dig beneath the surface in private, in secret. That way, *she* could have broken the story, rather than seeing it splashed over a thousand and one other front pages alongside hers. But there’s that itch, under her skin, behind her eyes, the crawling sensation of a question unanswered. And she knows she can *get* that answer, right here, right now; knows it all the way down to her bones, and there’s just no way she can resist.

It’s not even that hard, in the end.

First, set the trap:

“I'm sorry, Mr. Stark, but do you honestly expect us to believe that that was a bodyguard in a suit that conveniently appeared, despite the fact that…”

Make it look like she’s going right for the story he wants to tell, not the one he’s been given. Oh, he *wants* to tell the truth; she can see it in his eyes, in the way he’s practically vibrating with the effort of keeping the words inside.

He leaps on it, spewing fervent denials even as his eyes are practically begging her to follow the yellow brick road.

“I know that it's confusing. It is one thing to question the official story, and another thing entirely to make wild accusations, or insinuate that I'm a superhero.”

It’s all she can do not to smile. He’s all but handed her her next line, and it couldn’t be more perfect: just the right kind of bait.

“I never said you were a superhero.” Spoken with disdain, dismissal; like the thought would never in a million years even *occur* to her. Never mind that it’s all she can think about right now.

“Didn’t?”

She doesn’t even answer that in words; just a negative little “Mmm-mmm” that doesn’t even require her to part her lips. The barb sinks home, she can tell, the hook sinking deep through soft skin, catching and holding. But will it pull free or…

Tony starts babbling; Soldier-Man at his side having to step in to try to nudge him back on track before he can derail, before he can crash and burn in some glorious orgy of destruction.

(Of course she knows Soldier-Man’s name — Colonel James Rhodes, Tony-wrangler extraordinaire — but it amuses her to give out nicknames like candy. Honestly, the more inappropriate the better. ‘Soldier Man’ is her being *nice*.)

Some would say that destruction is what the Merchant of Death does best. Some would say it. Christine used to say it. Now, though… She saw his face when she waved those pictures in front of him, the atrocity in Gulmira; the proof that Stark Industries was still in the weapons business, even if Tony Stark claimed he’d gotten out of it. No one could have faked the look of utter betrayal she saw in his eyes. No one.

Not even the great Tony Stark.

He holds up his notes.

“The truth is…” For one horrible, stomach-churning moment, she thinks her fish has slipped the line, that she’s failed, that she won’t *know*, not for sure, not without a lot of work. But then he lowers the notes again, a glint in his eye that surely comes right from the devil himself. “I am Iron Man.”

As the room erupts in chaos, Christine leans back, amused. And maybe a little vindicated. She somehow manages to meet his eyes, tilting her a little in acknowledgement of a master showman plying his trade. She doesn’t know if he gets the message; doesn’t really care, already making plans to ensure that she’s the one who gets that exclusive interview.

And inside, she’s exulting.

* * * * *

**Past: Natasha**

“Any questions?”

Romanoff doesn’t answer right away, taking a few moments to go over the details of the mission in her mind before she speaks. Coulson doesn’t fidget or show any signs of impatience as she thinks things through; one more reason why she appreciates having him as her handler. (Her views on handlers may not generally be complimentary, but Coulson seems to be one of the good ones.)

“Why do it this way?” she asks quietly. It’s a question she already knows the answer to, but that doesn’t mean there isn’t any useful information to be gained by asking it.

Coulson tilts his head slightly, giving the appearance of studying her. (Even after knowing him all this time, Natasha doesn’t necessarily feel confident in ascribing definite motivations to his expressions. The man has one hell of a poker face when he chooses.)

“As opposed to hauling her in?” he says mildly. Romanoff inclines her head, watching him watching her. “Everything we know about her suggests that such a scenario is unlikely to achieve the desired outcome.” His lips twitch in a brief smile. “And short of locking her up afterwards — or utilising some other… permanent… method of silencing her — I think we can assume that SHIELD would be the subject of her next exposé.” He shrugs; a minimal up-and-down twitch of his suit-clad shoulders. “In any case, it would probably be overkill. We don’t expect that she really has much more than we already know. This is more about dotting the Is and crossing the Ts.”

Which is more or less as she suspected. But she nevertheless files away the fact that he went with pragmatism over… other possible reasons. (Again, as suspected.)

She nods.

Coulson quirks an eyebrow. “Still profiling me, Natasha?” (Interesting that he uses that name, rather than calling her Agent Romanoff. A personal observation, then, not a professional one. Which, of course, doesn’t mean it won’t end up in a report somewhere.) There’s something like amusement in his voice (something more complicated in his eyes) as he continues. “Even after all this time?”

((Natalya stirs at that remark.))

((The Widow mutters darkly that it was only a matter of time.))

(Natasha, though, is reasonably certain that Coulson isn’t questioning her loyalty.) 

((What is loyalty anyway, but just another form of obligation, the Widow asks. Of debts owed?)) 

(He could be letting her know that she can trust him. Or warning her against a paranoia that, counterintuitively, isn’t always an asset. Even in this line of work.)

(Or, he could just be making conversation.)

She gives a slow shrug, keeping her expression blankly polite.

“Just asking for clarification, Sir.”

Not the most subtle reminder, perhaps, but sometimes subtlety is overrated.

He looks at her for a long moment; long enough that she’s pretty sure Barton would by climbing the walls if he was in her seat. Honestly, she’s surprised that, being a sniper, he isn’t better at sitting still.

“How are you feeling about being back in the field?” he asks quietly.

“Looking forward to it,” she says, with feeling. ((Natalya whimpers somewhere in the background.))

Coulson studies her for a moment longer, and then nods. His demeanour is utterly businesslike once more as he pulls up a file on his computer.

“This is the cover you’ll be using…”

* * * * *

**Past: Natasha**

Agent Romanoff enters the foyer of the target’s building, wearing her cover like a second skin. While Nadia struts her stuff the way she does — or would if she were real — Romanoff takes the opportunity to assess her surroundings. She’s seen pictures and schematics, of course, but it’s never the same as being on site in person.

Obvious cameras. Placement could be better — a few clear holes in coverage. Minimal security measures, all of which could be easily circumvented if necessary. But this isn’t that kind of mission.

(One good thing about sleek modern interior design aesthetics — few places for would-be assassins to conceal themselves or their devices. Downside, though: limited defensive capability.)

((The thought of all that glass shattering is almost enough to make the soles of Natalya’s feet itch. Like walking barefoot over broken glass’ is, for her, not an empty simile but a practical yardstick for comparison.))

The woman who intercepts her has no telltale bulges that could indicate the presence of concealed weapons. Which doesn’t mean they’re *not* there, but it does mean she’s unlikely to be carrying a firearm. Blades or exotic weapons are a possibility, but although tall, the woman tends towards the slender side. She’s unlikely to pose a physical threat to Romanoff. (Probably does yoga or pilates or some other low impact form of exercise.) Similarly with the bored-looking woman sitting behind the sign marked ‘reception’, although the angle makes it difficult to be certain that there’s nothing under the desk.

All in all, Romanoff thinks the possibility of violence from either of these women is unlikely. (Not impossible — if there’s one thing that this business has taught her, it’s that ‘impossible’ is a word that should be used only sparingly, and then not until the mission is safely over and done with. But not much of a risk.)

She doesn’t think much to their method of access control. There’s no attempt made to check her signature against a reference, and the ID badge doesn’t even have a picture. Not to mention that the standard card stock and font would be trivial to fake. Even the magazine logo could simply be taken right off the magazine website.

Child’s play.

(Still, she supposes that a magazine headquarters doesn’t exactly need the kind of procedures necessary to call a place truly secure.)

Romanoff feels Nadia Vance start to fill out, to breathe a little, her sense of humour becoming evident as she studies the intern, Jessica.

(It doesn’t matter how much she researches or rehearses beforehand, a cover identity doesn’t really come to life in her mind until she actually slips fully into their skin. Only then will she know for sure if everything rings true, or if there are any wrinkles that must be smoothed out. As with any other weapon, the proof of the forging is in the field test.)

She checks for cracks, but finds none; Nadia’s facade seems flawless. Well and good. Now only one question remains: will she be up to the task at hand?


	2. Chapter 2

**Present: Natasha**

Yep, Nadia thinks to herself. Dropping Stark’s name got a reaction alright. Not anything as obvious as a flinch — this isn’t the veteran journalist’s first rodeo, after all — but there’s definitely something. It helps that she’s watching for it, of course. Despite what Chrissie — she definitely seems like a Chrissie, no matter what she tells anyone else to call her — might think of her and her ilk, she does actually do her homework. It doesn’t take a genius to think that Stark — the man, rather than the company — might be something of a hot button topic for the inimitable Ms Everhart. As she’d thought, pursuing this line of enquiry might just shake a few things loose. But rather than following up on that initial salvo with the question she’s prepared, something makes her hesitate. It’s a little… obvious, isn’t it? Christine will surely be expecting it, or something like it.

Perhaps it might be best to try another approach…

(It’s not instinct, not exactly, but in that unique headspace between cover identity and operative, Romanoff knows with something like certainty that her planned approach isn’t going to work. On paper it looks pretty much perfect, but one of the first lessons an agent learns out in the field is that the map is *not* the territory.)

((If it wouldn’t be a pointless exercise at this stage, Natasha would curse the fact that she didn’t spot it before. Christine has a temper, yes, but there’s more than one way of expressing anger. Provoking her over her liaison with Stark *is* going to make her mad, no doubt about that. But rather than opening up, she’s going to shut right down. It might as well be written all over her face.))

(No plan survives contact with the enemy — not that Christine is an enemy; more a potential asset than anything else — but necessity is the mother of improvisation. Anyway, Romanoff has a plan B.)

“Is this some form of word association, or do you actually have a question?” Chrissie asks brusquely.

“Just something I was wondering…” Nadia murmurs.

Despite her languid drawl, she’s watching the other woman like a hawk, alert to every little micro-expression. Her psych professors would be so proud of her right now. Although her abilities in this regard probably owe more to the con artist she shacked up with for a few weeks in Honduras. ((Natasha is amused at the way the details of Nadia’s legend have woven themselves through her psyche.))

In any case, Nadia isn’t complaining about having an excuse to study Chrissie. She’s not exactly hard on the eyes…

“Yes?” The word is impatient, like Chrissie just wants to get this over with. Like ripping off a bandaid, Nadia supposes.

“Why didn’t you include the Zagreb incident in your exposé?” she asks mildly.

(Romanoff half-expects to hear her handler’s voice in her ear, warning her about going off-script, but her earbud remains blessedly silent. It’s a silence that speaks volumes about Coulson’s trust in her. Or, his willingness to let her have enough rope to hang herself with. Practically speaking, it doesn’t matter which it is right now. It all looks the same from the sharp end.)

((It does matter, though. Not that Natasha would ever admit that to anyone but herself. Tasha might, but then she’s always been freer with her emotions than Natasha ever will be.))

Chrissie goes very still, staring at Nadia like she’s just grown a second head. Nadia can’t help a fierce grin at her discombobulation. Clearly, the high and mighty Vanity Fair journalist wasn’t expecting *that*. Nadia leans back in her chair, anticipation bubbling inside her as she waits to see how Chrissie responds to her little gambit.

This should be interesting…

* * * * *

**Present: Christine**

When Nadia brings up Stark again, Christine is certain that she’s going to ask about their one-night stand. (Maybe she’ll ask whether Christine fucks all her subjects. Maybe she’ll ask if that’s how she got to where she is today; how she gets her stories.) She’s so sure, in fact — already planning a blistering response in her mind — that it’s a moment before she realises that Nadia is actually asking her a different question.

An… *interesting* question.

It’s not often that Christine is caught completely wrong-footed like this. Once upon a time, back when she was young and stupid, she might have been tempted to bluff it out; to pretend that she knows what Nadia’s talking about despite not having the first clue. Now, she’s barely even tempted. It’s not like she’s opposed to pretending her hand is stronger than it is, but there’s a world of difference between having a poor hand and holding nothing at all. Besides, owning her ignorance might just gain her knowledge, and she wants that far more than she wants to save face right now.

So she swallows her pride (even if she can’t quite bring herself not give Nadia a gimlet-eyed stare) and asks:

“I’m not familiar with that incident.”

“Really?” Nadia feigns surprise. Or maybe the sentiment is actually real. If so, it’s certainly exaggerated for comic effect. Or maybe just for the effect of pissing her right the hell off. Actually, she’s pretty damn sure that, whatever Nadia’s other motives may be, pissing Christine off is definitely somewhere on her list. 

Infuriating little cooler-than-thou *hipster*. (Possibly not a fair label, or even an accurate one, but whatever.)

(Also, definitely kind of hot despite the nineties throwback grungy-punky-hipster-whatever look. Maybe even because. Which *really* doesn’t lessen the irritation factor even a tiny bit.)

“Really,” Christine echoes flatly.

She settles back into her seat and drinks her coffee, determined not to say another word until and unless Nadia decides to stop fucking around and fill her in. (She makes a mental note to be sure she’s extra-careful about policing anything she actually says out loud. Her vocabulary does tend towards the blue side when she gets seriously pi- *peeved*.)

Nadia taps at her keyboard, her expression sobering a little. Probably about as much as it *can*, Christine thinks grouchily. She wouldn’t be at all surprised to learn that the tiny smirk hovering around the corners of Nadia’s mouth is permanently welded to her face. And then there’s the glint in her eyes, the one that Christine (a little uncharitably, she admits to herself) is certain means ‘I’m laughing *at* you, not *with* you.’

“During the later stages of the Bosnian War, one of the allegedly Iranian weapons shipments to the Bosnians was ostensibly hijacked when it passed through Zagreb. The weapons ended up in the hands of General Mladic, who promptly used them to massacre the Bosnians they’d been intended for.”

Nadia’s tone is utterly matter-of-fact. She could be reading a grocery list for all the emotion it holds. Her eyes, however, tell a different story. With the reminder, Christine does remember the incident in question; remembers the aftermath, anyway. She covered the story for her employer-at-the-time. (She remembers they asked her to ‘tone down the editorial slant and make an effort to show both sides of the story. Which is what she’d *thought* she was doing. It was hardly her fault if reality turned out to be rather more one-sided than they liked.) She hadn’t associated it with SI, though…

A suspicion coalesces in her mind.

“Allegedly Iranian? Ostensibly hijacked?” she says, seizing on what she’d bet her bottom dollar is the point of connection here.

“Yeah,” Nadia says, nodding as if to say ‘well done, you’. (Christine tries not to bristle at something that might well exist solely in her imagination.) “It’s an open secret that a lot of those Iranian weapons originally came from SI, sold to them at somewhat preferential rates. It doesn’t take much to speculate that they must have had at least tacit approval from the US administration to get away with it. The enemy of my enemy is my friend, right? Because that worked out so well in Afghanistan. But I digress.”

She takes a sip of her tea.

“What isn’t commonly known,” Nadia continues. “Is that *someone* — and my money’s on someone at SI — figured out they could make money by playing both sides of this conflict. Guess they decided a little thing like genocide wasn’t going to stop them making a buck or two. But the thing about Stark weapons is that they’re pretty distinctive. If the Serbs suddenly started using them, people would start to wonder. So, they needed a plausible means through which they could have obtained them. Like, say, hijacking a secret weapons shipment.” She shrugs, her smile bitter. “It worked. So, now both the Bosnians and the Serbs had Stark weapons. And they both needed more of them which, one way or another, they got. So the war dragged on, a *lot* of people died, and SI made money hand over fist. Or, at least someone there did.”

“Stane?” Christine whispers.

“I’m sure that’s what Stark would like you to believe. In any case, there were almost certainly others, some of whom are probably still working there. So.” She spreads her hands, as if to say: what are you going to do? “There you go.”

For a moment, Christine is so fucking *furious* that she can’t speak. It’s been a while since she was that angry young protester campaigning against the ceaseless war-mongering of the military-industrial complex. She’s grown up a lot since then, has more of an appreciation for the complexities of peace-keeping in the modern world, but even so, that rage is still there at her core. Apparently, even though it’s burning lower these days, it doesn’t take much to fan the flames anew.

(Apparently, no matter how much she reinvents herself, however much she matures, Chrissie will always be a part of her.)

(And she’s good with that.)

“Do you have evidence of that? Of any of it?” she asks, when she can trust herself to speak without turning the air blue.

“Not enough to publish without SI’s lawyers crawling up my ass,” Nadia says, briefly looking angry herself before her expression smooths again into the mildly amused insouciance that’s apparently her baseline. “I was hoping…” She trails off before she can finish that sentence, shaking her head with a grimace. “Never mind.”

Christine smiles. She’s pretty sure the expression is the one that one of her exes said made her look ‘like you’re ready to tear someone’s throat out with your teeth.’ That feels like an appropriate descriptor.

“To answer your question, I didn’t mention the Zagreb incident in my exposé because I didn’t know about it. But now I do, and I can always write a follow-up piece. If you feel like sharing your information with me, I would appreciate it. I’d make sure I credited you appropriately, of course.”

“Maybe. I’d have to check with my sources,” Nadia says, looking thoughtful. “But I’ll get back to you.” Honestly, that’s more than Christine would have expected. (She wonders idly if Nadia really will get back to her. She doesn’t necessarily *need* that information, but it might help her decide where to start digging… In any event, there’s no point in worrying about it at the moment, so she puts it aside to concentrate on the interview.) “Anyway,” Nadia continues, back at full smirk once more. “I thought I was supposed to be asking you the questions.”

Christine spreads her arms in a gesture that’s closer to a challenge than an invitation, raising her eyebrows.

“So, ask.”

* * * * *

**Future**

Profiting from Loss: A call for tighter regulations on the international arms trade

By Christine Everhart

As long as war has existed, there have been times where weapons have ended up in the ‘wrong’ hands, whether by accident or with deliberate intent. In this article, Christine Everhart investigates the routes by which weapons end up being used against the very people they are supposed to protect and explores ways of stopping this from happening.

* * * * *

**Past: Natasha**

The door opens with a quiet click behind Tasha. She doesn’t turn around, doesn’t even so much as look up from the laptop she’s idly playing with, no matter how much the skin between her shoulder blades seems to want to crawl right off her back.

(There are appearances to be maintained, after all.)

Besides, out of the corner of her eye, she can just about see the picture frame on the wall, the one that holds a broken bow and a spread of shattered arrows. (It’s a private joke; one she’s not entirely sure means the same thing to Clint as it does to Tasha *or* Natasha, but he accepted the gift anyway. Tasha finds it funny, but then she’s twisted like that.) More importantly, the glass is just about reflective enough to let her see the man who’s just entered.

The corners of her mouth curl upwards the tiniest bit at the way he pauses briefly on the threshold, like he needs a moment to prepare himself. Or like he’s unsure of his welcome even in his own apartment. Well and good. He should be wary.

(Even of her.)

((Especially of her.))

(Besides, she knows he likes the sense of never quite knowing where he stands with her; likes the edge to their interactions, the possibility that things may turn dangerous. Even as he unhesitatingly trusts her to have his back when it counts. And she does; she will. She always will. That’s a promise all her many selves have made, even if not always for the same reason.)

She’d never harm him by choice, of course. (Well, she’d never harm him if there were a better option.) Hurting, though… That’s something different.

They hurt each other, sometimes; test their limits, physical and emotional. Pick at open wounds, sore spots, weakness, cracks in their armour. (It’s necessary. Theirs is a dangerous world, and weaknesses can get you killed; can get other people killed. Or worse.) Can’t fix a problem if you don’t know it exists, and who else better to find the cracks? Who else but the person who knows you (well, a version of you) better than anyone else in all the world? The person you trust to have your back, no matter what. The person you trust not to use those weaknesses against you in any way you won’t permit.

So, they shore each other up against the rest of the world.

And they trust each other not to hold back,

“You should hide your porn better,” she calls out; her version of ‘hello’.

In the reflection, she notes the easy way he shrugs as he closes the door behind him and takes a few steps into the room. His wry smile is more sensed than seen, coming through in his voice.

“You’ve already seen most of the good stuff,” he says, shedding his jacket and assorted sundries. He doesn’t disarm himself, she notes. She approves of his caution: maybe she won’t even test it this time. Maybe. “Want a drink?”

“Please.”

He ambles towards her at a leisurely pace, slowly leaning in so he can see her face. He isn’t always so careful. Sometimes he deliberately makes his movements sudden and threatening, just to see what she’ll do. Sometimes she does the same with him; all part of the game they like to play. It tells her something, that he’s not doing that right now.

“You going to tell me what you want, or do I have to guess?”

She sets his laptop aside, gives him her full attention, smiling just a little too widely, expression a little too sharp for comfort.

(His comfort, anyway, Sometimes she thinks that Tasha is more *her* than any of her other selves, even Natasha or Romanoff, the skins she wears most often these days. Less rigidly controlled, certainly; more able to let her sense of humour out to play. She learned a long time ago that her sense of humour is not for everyone; too sharp, too twisted, too Russian, perhaps. Too much of the Widow’s bite. So she mostly keeps it — and the Widow — under wraps.)

((Though the Widow chafes at her restraints, muttering darkly about the things she’ll do if she ever slips her leash.))

(Natasha isn’t worried.)

(((Maybe she even likes the reminder; the knowledge that she hasn’t lost her edge, still has options. Even if that isn’t really who she is any more.)))

“Surprise me,” she says, her voice smoky and dark, enjoying the way his eyes darken and his breath quickens just a hair, even as one hand drifts fractionally closer to where she knows he has at least one knife tucked away.

(Yes, Tasha might have a little of the Widow in her. Clint seems to appreciate that — he has his own sharp edges and dark corners, after all — and she appreciates the chance to feel a little more… whole. All in all, it’s a fair exchange.)

((And if Tasha reminds her a little of Natalya now and then — or, rather, of the person Natalya might have become, if she’d ever been allowed to grow up — well. No one but her ever needs to know.))

((For certain values of ‘her,’ maybe not even that.))

Of all the possible responses he could choose, Clint opts for humour.

“Not sure that’s possible, Tasha,” he says, favouring her with a lopsided grin. “But I’ll do my best.”

“Don’t sell yourself short,” she murmurs, her smile softening just a touch. “You’re a man of many talents.”

“I like to think so.”

He preens just a little as he heads off towards the kitchen, just as expected. It’s entirely real; the brashness and bravado a fundamental part of him. But, at the same time, it’s also more complicated than that. More complicated than most people tend to realise. Not her, though. And maybe not Coulson. *Maybe* (Probably.)

Clint potters around in the kitchen. Sounds like at least one of them is having a hot drink, but she consciously doesn’t try to pin it down more than that. She did tell him to surprise her, after all. She resettles herself in the chair, curling one leg up beneath her and balancing Clint’s laptop on her knees. (The position restricts her mobility somewhat. It would take a precious extra few seconds to get to her feet if she had to, but that’s okay. Here, like this, it’s okay.)

By the time he’s done making the drinks, she’s immersed in her research — *not* Clint’s porn collection, despite her earlier words. Anyway, he’s right: she has already seen all the good stuff. Hell, she found some of it for him. She looks up at his approach, arching one eyebrow at the tray in his hands.

“My, aren’t we civilised today,” she murmurs, smiling a little.

“You take that back!” he retorts mock-indignantly. “I’ll have you know I’m an uncouth barbarian, and proud of it.”

She laughs. “I stand corrected.”

“Damn straight,” he sniffs, setting the tray down on the table next to her and dragging over another chair. “So, what’s the verdict?”

She glances over the contents of the tray and smiles, genuinely pleased. The small samovar is new since her last visit, and the delicious aroma of one of her favourite tea blends wafts gently from the spout. It’s accompanied by a glass cup and saucer, a small plate of lemon slices and a pot of honey.

Just the way she likes.

“Acceptable,” she says, letting him see just how delighted she is, despite the mildness of the word. “And suitably surprising.”

He claps a hand to his chest dramatically.

“Oh, thank the heavens,” he drawls. “Her highness is pleased.”

Tasha’s eyes narrow. “Careful,” she says, but there’s no real bite to the word. Clint just grins insolently and swipes his own drink from the tray.

“Never,” he says cheerfully. “Where’s the fun in that?” He cracks open his bottle of beer and takes a healthy swig, sighing in satisfaction. “Ah, that hits the spot.”

“You really are a barbarian,” she says, amused. Closing the laptop, she sets it to one side and sets about pouring her tea.

“Told you,” he says smugly. “Anyway, it’s not like you have room to talk. Remember that dive bar in Honduras? You weren’t too proud to drink from a bottle then.”

“I was thirsty,” she says, shrugging easily. “Besides, *I’m* a lady. It’s perfectly proper when I do it.”

He snorts at that, taking another swig of his beer. “You saying *everything* you do is civilised? Proper?” Grinning, he waggles his eyebrows in a perfectly ridiculous manner. “Clean?”

“Well,” she amends, not quite holding back a grin. “Maybe not *quite* everything.” Settling back down with her tea, she waits until Clint lifts his beer again before taking a small sip and sighing in obvious satisfaction. “Mmmm,” she practically purrs. “That’s good.”

(It is, actually; it’s probably the best she’s going to find outside of… places she’s unlikely to go unless she has to. But that’s not the point.)

Clint doesn’t quite choke on his mouthful of cheap beer — and it’s not like he couldn’t afford good stuff, but he genuinely seems to prefer what she politely refers to as ‘swill’ — but there’s definitely spluttering involved. “You trying to kill me, Tasha?” he protests, dabbing ineffectually at the damp spot on his T-shirt.

“Not today,” she says, smiling in a way that could almost be considered fond. Almost.

“Then why are you here? Not that you don’t brighten up the place, but…”

She takes another sip of tea before answering.

“Maybe I just wanted the pleasure of your company.”

But he’s shaking his head almost before she’s finished speaking. “Nope. Try again.”

(Part of her shifts uneasily at the thought that he can read her so well; that anyone can read her so well.)

((The Widow thinks he’s a threat, but then *she’s* never understood the benefits of not working solo. In her experience, trusting someone to watch your back just means you’re giving them the opportunity to stick a knife in it.)) 

(But then, it’s not like she’s trying to hide from him.) 

((Not about this, anyway.))

(It would be counter-productive.)

“Need your help with mission prep,” she says, her whole demeanour suddenly businesslike.

“What do you need?” he responds immediately, matching her brisk tone.

“When I’ve finished my tea.” She accompanies the words with a faint smirk. “After all, you went to so much trouble.” She’s only half-joking. It is very good tea, and it’s been a while since she’s had the chance to relax and indulge like this. (Natasha doesn’t. Romanoff can’t. And none of the others are relevant right now.)

“Yeah, what was I thinking? Let’s be *civilised* about this.” He pronounces the word ‘civilised’ like it’s something obscene, making her laugh a little. “So, are we going to sit in silence and contemplate… whatever?”

“I didn’t say we couldn’t talk,” she says mildly, continuing in a tone that can only be describe as ‘perky’. “How was your day, honey?”

“Dull as fucking ditchwater,” he says, pulling a face. “Stuck on overwatch for most of it — babysitting, really, but not nearly as much fun as that sounds. I didn’t even get to try out my new arrows!”

“Poor baby,” she drawls. “Tell Auntie Tasha all about it.”

Clint gives her a funny look. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but the last word I want to associate with you is ‘Auntie’.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she deadpans. “What was I thinking?” She waits a beat; just long enough for him to raise the beer bottle to his lips and tilt it; for the liquid to flow smoothly down the glass. “How about Mama?”

“Goddamnit, woman,” he gasps out, when he’s finished coughing and spluttering. “You are pure evil.”

“And you love it,” she retorts.

“Yeah, well. Coulson did say I had my survival instinct surgically removed and replaced by my ‘deeply inappropriate sense of humour’.” His imitation of Coulson’s tone is absolutely spot on. Dry, perfectly articulated, but with a distinct edge of frustration — the kind Clint seems to delight in trying to induce in their handler (wrangler).

“Oh? she says, leaning forward a little and raising her eyebrows. “Sounds like a story there.”

“Heh.” He grins broadly, the expression making him look oddly young. “You could say that. But the thing you have to remember is: it really wasn’t my fault.”

“Uh huh.” She doesn’t even try to hide her skepticism.

“No, really!” He shakes his head emphatically, putting a hand to his chest in a parody of shocked innocence. “I was merely a victim of circumstance.” His expression earnest, he leans forward, gesturing with the hand not holding the beer bottle. “Look, it was like this…”

* * * * *

**Past: Clint**

“We can’t just leave her there!” Clint snarls, slamming the palms of his hands down on Coulson’s desk hard enough to sting.

“Agent Barton, you will sit down and stop assaulting my furniture.” Coulson’s voice is mild, but Clint finds himself grabbing the chair he practically kicked out of the way when he barged in here and flinging himself down into it, staring daggers at the other man. Fucking *handlers*. (He knows that’s unfair; knows Coulson’s one of the good ones, but he’s just so worked up right now he can barely think straight.) “Better,” says Coulson, still in that same, mild tone. He sighs. “The trouble is, we don’t know where ‘there’ is.” His voice takes on an edge of frustration, and Clint suddenly realises that he isn’t anywhere near as calm as he seems. That scares Clint almost as badly as when he first overheard the news. “Agent Romanoff has dropped completely off the grid, as have other members of the group she infiltrated. It appears that there’s been some manner of double-cross among their ranks. We’re working to-“

“I should be out there, with the investigative team. I know Tasha better than anyone. If she’s managed to leave a message or something, I have the best chance of spotting it and figuring out what it means.”

“*If* you’ll let me finish,” Coulson admonishes, looking at him with eyebrows raised until he waves his hand in a ‘carry on’ gesture. “That is, in fact, the plan. As you would already know *if* you’d waited to be briefed before going off half-cocked.”

Ordinarily, Clint might feel abashed under that quelling look, but right now he’s just too wired to focus on much of anything except the fact that he’s going out there where he belongs. (And really, why wasn’t he out there with her in the first place? They’re supposed to be a team, aren’t they? Whose bright idea was it to split them up like this?)

“Fine,” Clint grinds out. “Brief me, then.” He makes himself add: “Sorry for barging in. And kicking your chair. And hitting your desk.”

“Under the circumstances, I think I’ll let it slide,” Coulson remarks dryly. Leaning forward, he lightly touches Clint’s shoulder, and aside from Tasha he’s about the only person on this earth who can do that without getting a death glare at the very least. Right now, the touch helps, grounding Clint in the here and now. “We’ll get her back, Clint,” Coulson says.

Clint nods sharply.

“I know,” he says, tightly. “I’m not worried.” Which isn’t entirely true, but he consoles himself that Tasha is more than capable of looking after herself. Hell, getting herself captured was pretty much the plan. She’ll be fine. She will. He bares his teeth in a fierce grin. “It’s the bad guys I feel sorry for.”

* * * * *

**Past: Natasha**

“…Cavanaugh had that *look* on his face — that one that makes him look like he’s smelling shit — and Mubarak was trying so hard not to crack up I thought he was going to burst a blood vessel. So I…”

Clint certainly knows how to tell a tall tale, Tasha reflects. Must be his natural showmanship. Or, as the man himself often says: ‘You can take the man out of the carnival, but you can’t take the carnival out of the man.’ She almost wishes she could have seen his act, way back then. But that was well before her time.

When story, mission post-mortem and refreshments are over and done with, Clint clears away the tray and returns to his seat, looking at her expectantly.

“So, what do you need?”

“Mainly your opinion.” Getting to her feet, she hikes up her top, turning a little and canting her hip towards him. “What does that look like to you?”

Frowning, he glances at the exposed scar, then lifts his gaze to meet her eyes again. “It’s a bullet wound. Through and through. You’ve had it a while.”

She rolls her eyes. “I *know* it’s a bullet wound,” she says, just a touch of impatience in her voice. “What I want to know is, what would a civilian think it is?”

“If that’s what you want to know, that’s what you should have asked,” he complains. But he gets up to take a closer look, checking both entry and exit scars before sighing and shaking his head. “Still looks like a bullet wound, Tasha. Sorry.”

“Could it be something else?”

“Maybe.” He sounds dubious. “What are you thinking?”

“Accident of some kind,” she says. “I’ve been looking at wound patterns. Here, let me show you…” Smoothing her top back into place, she snags his laptop and sets it on the table so she can show him some of her research.

“That’s disgusting,” he says, looking absolutely fascinated. Then he blinks. “Hang on. Why are you using *my* laptop for this?”

“What, you think I’d use mine? The SHIELD computer techs are scared enough of me as it is.” She narrows her eyes at him. “Which, by the way, I’m holding you responsible for.”

“Who, me?” He holds the attempted innocent expression all of a second before giving it up as the lost cause that it is. “At least tell me you’re in secure mode.”

She gives him another eye-roll. “Who do you think you’re talking to? Anyway, unlike you, *I* know how to delete my browser history.”

“I know how,” he says, just a touch defensively. “I just… forget sometimes.” She shoots him a skeptical look, but says nothing. “Anyway,” he says. “I thought you were slated for a simple civilian debrief. An interview or something?”

“Christine Everhart.” He looks blank. “The journalist who got the Iron Man exclusive,” she explains. “I’m going to be interviewing her.”

“Okay,” he says slowly, still looking faintly confused. “So why are you worried about your scars all of a sudden? You planning on interviewing her in a bikini?”

“Wasn’t planning on it,” she says lightly. “But this” — she waves a hand towards her abdomen — “doesn’t exactly match my cover.”

She wonders if he’ll understand, or if this is the time she’ll have to try to find the words to explain something that doesn’t always makes sense to her. (Not the need to do better than merely ‘good enough’. That, she understands. Not even the desire to be perfect. In a world where the difference between success and failure is the thinnest sliver of a knife’s edge, perfection is always worth striving for. But the way it’s almost like a compulsion for her… The way it sometimes feels like she’s reaching the very edge of ‘logical precautions’ and veering dangerously close to ‘obsession’.*That* seems perilously close to weakness in her book.)

(Even if it is one of the things that makes her so good at undercover work.)

((When her whole life is a cover story of one sort or another, what’s one more role to play?))

“Yeah, but Tasha: who’s going to know?” Clint laughs a little as he asks the question, but then he stops, amusement replaced by something still and quiet and deep. “You would, I guess,” he says thoughtfully.

“Precisely.” There’s a certain satisfaction in her voice, the knowledge that he does understand after all. (Well, maybe not *understand* per se, but he accepts that it’s important to her. And that’s all she needs from him.)

(Well, apart from his help.)

“Alright then,” he says decisively. “Let’s see what we can do. Tell me who you’re going to be.”

(Any other agent might say ‘tell me about your cover.’ Clint knows better than that. Knows *her* better than that. She forgives him for it, though.)

“Her name’s Nadia Vance.” She quickly fills him in on all the salient details.

“Huh,” is is eloquent response. Raising an eyebrow, she waits to see if he’s going to expand on that. “Seems a little… quirky.”

She supposes that’s as good a word as any. “Preliminary research suggests the target’s not likely to reveal the information we want without a push.” She shrugs. “Nadia’s going to push.”

(After going over the target’s profile herself, Romanoff is inclined to agree with Coulson’s assessment. Ms Everhart is not going to want to discuss Tony Stark, especially not those details that Shield’s interested in: the ones she saw fit to keep out of her final article. And there’s no way some wide-eyed ingenue is going to be able to persuade her to reveal something she’s decided to keep secret. Not without breaking cover. So they’re… taking a different approach.)

Now it’s Clint’s turn to raise his eyebrows. “So, you’re supposed to make her mad?”

“Something like that.” But that’s not why she needs Clint’s help right now, so she brings the conversation back to the matter at hand. “Anyway, I was thinking Nadia’s into extreme sports of some kind.”

“Good reason for why you’re in better shape than most keyboard jockeys your age,” he observes. “Gym fiend would also work for that, I guess, but extreme sports also explains most of your scars.”

“Yeah.” She grimaces with frustration. “But, no matter how I squint, I can’t see this one as anything other than a badly-healed bullet hole.”

“You’ve already looked at impaling injuries?”

She nods, gesturing at the gruesome images displayed on the laptop screen. “There are some possibilities there, but nothing that matches exactly.”

“You really expect a Vanity Fair journalist to know a bullet hole from a hole in her ass? Assuming that she does somehow get to plump her peepers on the infamous Romanoff midriff.”

“She’s spent the last couple of years investigating weapons manufacturers, so…. yes. I do think she’ll know a bullet hole from a hole in her ass. Which, by the way, is an *extremely* vulgar phrase.”

“Thanks!” he says, beaming so proudly that she has to roll her eyes at him. It doesn’t subdue him one iota, not that she was expecting it to. Frankly, she’d have been surprised if it had. He sobers of his own accord, though, reclaiming his laptop and sitting back down — well, sprawling casually across the chair — to go through her research. She positions her own chair so she can sit and watch him work. “These ones,” he says eventually, pulling up a handful and eyeing them critically. “Spelunking accident? That could work.”

“It could,” she agrees. She was already figuring on some kind of ascent or descent-related impalement, and spelunking seems as good a choice as any. But still… “Doesn’t quite feel right, though.”

Clint shrugs. “I think it’s about as good as you’re going to get. Unless…” He trails off, brow furrowed in thought.

“Unless?” she prompts.

“Unless it’s a bullet wound.”

She turns the thought this way and that. “Explain.”

“Civilians do get shot. And you said Nadia spent a year travelling through some pretty shady places.” He shrugs. “It’s not completely out there.”

“No, it’s not,” she agrees, sounding it out in her mind to see if it rings true. It does. More than that, it feels like the piece she was missing, the final touch that turns a picture painted in data and painstakingly constructed electronic footprints into a living, breathing person. (Like the final stroke of the magic paintbrush in the old Chinese folk story.) “Thanks, Clint,” she says. “I think you’ve cracked it.”

Yes, Tasha thinks this could definitely work. (More importantly, it passes muster with both Natasha and Romanoff. Romanoff is already making plans, figuring out what, if any, new data trails might be needed to add this little detail to the legend. To make it truly flawless.)

“My pleasure,” Clint drawls. And, despite the heavy layer of sarcasm, Tasha thinks that he’s actually genuinely pleased to have helped her.

“I guess you’re not just a pretty face after all,” she smirks, matching his tone perfectly. (After all, gratitude, like love, is a thing for children and for fairy tales. It’s not a thing for people like them. The debt has been acknowledged and will be repaid. That will more than suffice.)

“Nope, I’ve also got a mighty fine ass,” he says. “And check out the gun show.” He starts to flex, then swears as the laptop makes a break for freedom, fortunately managing to grab it before it can slide too far. (Well, fortune and well-honed reflexes.)

“Oh. Wow. I’m so impressed,” she deadpans, earning herself a glower.

He puts the laptop gingerly on the the table and closes the lid.

“There’s no need for sarcasm,” he grumbles.

“I don’t know what you mean,” she continues, still in the same monotone. “I’m hurt that you could accuse me of such a thing.”

“You can stop that now,” he says, glowering at her.

She waves for a moment, but in the end the decision is an easy one. Both of them between missions, him just returned, her just about to head out. Really, there was only one way this was ever going to end.

Leaning forward, she very deliberately meets his eyes and *smiles*, her next words barely above a murmur.

“Make me.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Present: Natasha**

“…I accepted, because it was Vanity f- Vanity Fair, and whatever else I may be, I’m *not* an idiot. I know a good career move when I see one.”

Nadia is pretty sure that first ‘f’ isn’t just a stutter. Just like the handful of other broken-off little sounds that have occasionally peppered the other woman’s speech. More ‘f’s, the odd ’sh’ here and there, a ‘p’ or two and once, intriguingly, something that was either a ‘q’ or a hard ‘c’. Not often — not really — but here and there. When she’s particularly riled, or seems especially at her ease. Maybe that ‘or’ should be an ‘and’. She hasn’t actually finished one of those truncated little epithets yet, but Nadia doesn’t need her to finish to known what it means. When Chrissie Everhart is pissed off and/or relaxed, she swears like a motherfucking *sailor*.

And that shit is just hilarious.

((Nadia’s sense of humour is starting to remind Natasha a little of Tasha.)) 

((Tasha happens to be *especially* tickled by the thought of the polished journalist swearing like a trooper.))

((It’s not really that much of a surprise — she did use Tasha as a template for this skin, after all. A certain amount of bleed-through is only to be expected. She’ll take action if it starts to become a problem, but the current level of cross-talk is well within acceptable parameters.))

Nadia isn’t planning on being unprofessional or anything, but if she can’t get Chrissie to actually finish at least one of those words during this interview, she’s going to be disappointed.

(Romanoff judges that this intent adds verisimilitude to her current skin, but intends to be cautious when judging how far to push. Getting thrown out before completing the debriefing would be a distinctly suboptimal outcome. Fortunately, despite being somewhat more volatile than the briefing materials had led her to expect, Everhart also seems to possess a reasonable degree of control. Between that, and her professionalism, she’s unlikely to end the interview early without severe provocation.)

((Natasha notes that Nadia seems to be even more successful at provoking Ms Everhart than predicted. She files that datapoint away for later analysis.))

To that end, she smirks a little and says:

“And you didn’t feel like you were selling out?”

Chrissie’s eyes narrow.

“No,” she says, the word sharp as a whip crack ((or a gun’s retort)). “Because I’m not a brat who thinks that making a mature and considered choice about the course of my life counts as selling out.”

Nadia’s eyebrows lift, her smirk broadening into a wry grin.

“Are you calling me a brat?” she asks softly, part-amused, part-bristling just a little.

Tilting her head a little, Chrissie smiles sharply back.

“Are you calling me a sell-out?”

“Just asking a question,” Nadia murmurs, shrugging languidly. “This is an interview, after all.”

(Romanoff could escalate, but it would serve no purpose at this point. Perhaps there may be some mileage in it when the conversation is a little closer to the topic of interest.)

To facilitate de-escalation of hostilities, or whatever, she takes a sip — well, really more of a gulp — of her now distinctly lukewarm tea. Maybe she makes more of a production of it than she really needs to, licking her lips and sighing in largely-feigned satisfaction, but it seems like the right thing to do at the time. Her hunch pays off. Chrissie’s eyes flick briefly but noticeably towards her mouth, breath hitching ever-so-slightly before she tightens her jaw and stares Nadia almost aggressively in the eyes.

Nadia’s almost surprised that sparks don’t fly at the contact.

Ignoring the way her own breath catches just a little at that look ((Tasha — metaphorically speaking — sits up and starts actively paying attention to the proceedings)), she casually sets the nearly empty mug down and leans back in her chair.

“So,” she says thoughtfully, refusing to be the first to break eye-contact, regardless of how weirdly intense this is starting to feel. “How long did you have to wait before you could work on your own stories?”

Chrissie shrugs. In contrast to Nadia’s lazy motion, the movement is tight and jerky, her posture speaking of tension and leashed energy. Nadia bets she’s a pacer, a fidgeter; one of those people whose natural tendency is to constant motion. Like a shark. And like a shark, Nadia would bet that she knows how to draw blood. Both figurative and literal.

(Romanoff already knows from the data that Everhart has been trained to a civilian proficient level both in unarmed combat and with firearms.) 

((The latter of which, Natasha observes, would almost seem counter-intuitive for a person who expresses such strong feelings about weapons manufacturers.))

Nadia wonders idly if and when Chrissie ever stops holding back.

“I don’t remember exactly,” Chrissie says. “Not too long, though. My editor’s always been good about listening to suggestions.” She grins suddenly, wryly. “Anyway, they didn’t exactly employ me to write puff pieces.”

(Romanoff judges this is as good an opportunity as any to try to get this debriefing back on track.)

“Like the Iron Man interview?”

Chrissie’s breath hisses audibly through her teeth, and she draws herself up like a snake about to strike. Nadia is pretty sure that if looks could kill, that basilisk stare would strike her down dead as a doornail.

“You think that’s a puff piece?” Chrissie’s voice is low and dangerous, the sound of it going right through Nadia, sending a slow shiver all the way along her spine.

Nadia cocks her head, quirking an eyebrow as she pastes a quizzical expression on her face.

“Isn’t it?” she says, deliberately sounding surprised. “It’s a ‘candid’ celebrity interview.” She actually makes the air quotes with her fingers. Somehow, it seems appropriate. “Like that one they did with George Clooney last month.”

Chrissie leans forward a little, resting the palms of her hands on the edge of her desk. Nadia finds herself responding by stiffening her spine, sitting up ramrod straight.

“Have you even read the Iron Man piece?” Chrissie asks, and Nadia can’t help noting that the naked anger in her eyes takes her all the way from ‘wouldn’t kick her out of bed’ through to ‘smoking hot’.

Seriously. It feels like the temperature in here just jumped about a thousand degrees.

Nadia can’t help reflecting that Chrissie Everhart is not precisely what she was expecting. Well, she is and she isn’t. Nadia read a bunch of her articles to prepare for this gig — yes, including the Iron Man piece. She’s not *actually* unprofessional. Well, not when it comes to research at least. She knew walking in here that the woman was smart, determined and more than capable of stringing a coherent sentence together. But she wasn’t expecting her to actually be *witty*. To trade barbs with her. To respond to veiled mockery by outright calling her on her shit.

It’s not that she wasn’t expecting Chrissie to be confrontational if provoked. And Nadia was certainly planning on provoking her. People tend to be at their most truthful when they’re angry, when they’re in the throes of passion, or when they believe they have the upper hand. She just wasn’t expecting the result to end up being so…

Well.

Apparently it really is all in the attitude.

(Romanoff notes that Nadia’s response to Everhart is somewhat stronger than predicted, but still within acceptable parameters.) 

((Tasha is *definitely* paying attention now.))

((Natasha wonders about the possibility of bleed-through in the other direction. It can be a hazard of undercover work, but it’s generally only a significant risk with long-term or especially intense experiences. This debrief is intended to be neither.))

Nadia seriously considers lying in response to Chrissie’s question, but decides the truth would serve her better.

“Yeah, I’ve read it,” she says lightly. Adding a little bite to her voice, she continues: “Don’t think much of bloggers, do you? Or is it just me?”

“I don’t know you,” Chrissie says quietly, her voice straddling the line between intrigued and furious. “But I do know that you’re deliberately trying to provoke me. I’d like to know why.”

So many possibilities there. How to choose, how to choose… Nadia deliberately relaxes, settling back into her seat as if she hasn’t a care in the world. She doesn’t bother to hide the fact that she’s still watching Chrissie though, and it may just be her imagination but it seems like the other woman shifts under her gaze, eyes flicking briefly away from hers.

Uncomfortable, or something else?

She certainly knows which one of those she’d prefer.

(Romanoff’s observations confirm her earlier hypothesis that Everhart finds Nadia attractive.)

((Natasha is relieved. Seducing Ms Everhart isn’t *actually* part of her brief, but it’s good to have the option. Attraction can be such a difficult variable to predict.))

((Tasha preens a little.))

Nadia shrugs and lets her smirk twist into a wry grin.

“People are more likely to tell the truth when they’re pissed off. I wanted to get at the real story.”

Chrissie frowns.

“You thought I was going to lie to you?”

“Not lie necessarily, but…” Nadia considers how best to put this. (Romanoff chooses her words like a surgeon choosing the correct instruments for an operation.) “Are you honestly saying you never hold back anything? That you wouldn’t try to present yourself in the best possible light? That you tell all of the truth all of the time?” Nadia lets her gaze trail over the other woman before meeting her eyes. Her voice is soft as she continues. “You sure you’re human?”

Unexpectedly, Chrissie laughs.

“I was last time I checked,” she says lightly. Serious again, she shoots Nadia a sharply considering glance. “You realise your tactic could backfire horribly.”

It isn’t really a question, but Nadia answers it as though it is.

“It could, but I’m quietly confident. Anyway, it hasn’t backfired yet.” She arches an eyebrow enquiringly. “Has it?”

A slow, perhaps reluctant smile spreads across Chrissie’s face. She seems amused despite herself.

“Answer unclear,” she says wryly. “Try again later.”

“Maybe I will,” Nadia murmurs, unable to help lacing the words with something that sounds almost like a promise. Or a threat. Chrissie gives her a look that starts out sharp, but ends up… appraising; in a way that sends another slow shiver down Nadia’s spine. All of a sudden, the air between them feels ripe with possibility.

Well, maybe not all of a sudden. Maybe it’s something that’s been building from the moment she checked Chrissie out. Or the moment Chrissie returned the favour. But whenever this tension started, it does seem to be ratcheting up a notch…

Nadia leans forward, narrowing the distance between them. She’s almost surprised that Chrissie doesn’t draw back.

“So,” Nadia says; almost breathing the word.

“So?” repeats Chrissie slowly, warily.

(Romanoff’s instincts prick her once again, telling her that the direct approach, rather than subtlety, will suit the purpose best here.)

“What did you keep out of the Iron Man piece?”

(Again, her earbud remains blessedly silent.)

Chrissie frowns, and then smooths her expression into one of polite, neutral enquiry.

“Why do you want to know?”

If she wasn’t already certain of it, that response would tell her that she isn’t just barking up the wrong tree. Although, honestly, even if Chrissie had just responded with a flat denial, she wouldn’t have believed it.

“Just curious,” she murmurs.

For a moment, she thinks Chrissie might actually answer the question. She looks like she *wants* to, like she’s considering it, but then she draws herself up and eyes Nadia narrowly.

“Is that why you’re here? Because you want to know about Iron Man?”

(Romanoff considers for a moment. This is going to require a delicate touch. Denial would be the standard protocol, of course, but instinct counsels a different approach. Pull, rather than push. Gently reel Everhart in.)

“Partly,” she says, obscurely satisfied by the flare of surprise in Chrissie’s eyes. She suspects the cause isn’t the answer itself so much as the fact that she’s willing to admit it. “But I also wanted to meet you.” She shrugs. “Kind of a one stone, two birds situation.” She pauses there, but when Chrissie doesn’t respond right away she flashes her a grin. “What, you don’t think I’m capable of multitasking?”

“I think there’s a lot you’re capable of,” Chrissie murmurs, shaking her head, but it doesn’t sound like a criticism. “So, what’s your interest here?”

“In Iron Man? Or…” She looks Chrissie over again, making no attempt to hide the heat she’s sure is in her eyes. “In you.”

Chrissie licks her lips. Nadia counts that as some sort of victory.

“Either. Both.”

“I have eyes,” Nadia says. She demonstrates by holding Chrissie’s with them, before deliberately adopting a businesslike demeanour. “I see what’s going on in the world. Superheroes? Ultra-advanced tech? The times, they are a-changing, Chrissie. Anyone with an ounce of sense should want to find out all they can.” She can’t help noting — with a not-inconsiderable amount of satisfaction — that Chrissie must be rattled not to correct her use of the diminutive. “And, as for the other: you’re a noted female journalist who covers something a little more meaty than fame and fashion. Why *wouldn’t* I be interested in…” She pauses, grinning in a way that she hopes is at least half as wicked as it feels, before continuing innocuously with: “picking your brains?”

“I see,” Chrissie murmurs. She drums her the fingers of one hand on the desk for a moment or two before stilling her fingers and folding her hands in her lap. “Well,” she says, briskly. “I’m afraid time is ticking on, and I don’t believe Iron Man is supposed to be the subject of this interview.” She sighs. “More’s the pity.”

“Not your idea, huh?” Nadia asks, her voice more sympathetic than she intends.

Chrissie tightens her jaw. “My editor believes in taking advantage of opportunities to acquire good publicity, and focus public attention on my stories.”

“As opposed to what a bad girl you’ve been?”

* * * * *

**Past: Christine**

Unfamiliar alarm. Unfamiliar bed. Empty bed, and that’s the strange thing here. Christine is usually long gone before her last night’s entertainment can even *think* of waking up, having long-since mastered the art of getting dressed in darkness and silence and haste. She really isn’t one for pillow talk. And apparently, neither is Tony.

Oh. Right. Tony Stark.

It isn’t that she’d forgotten, not really. It’s more like she didn’t want to remember. Not until she was sufficiently awake to deal with it. Which she isn’t, not really. All that burning the candle at both ends was bound to catch up with her sooner or later, and apparently, last night was when her candle finally burned down. She does feel extremely well-rested, though. If this is how the other half lives, she needs to mingle in these circles more often. She could *definitely* get used to this. Not that she usually has the chance to luxuriate in, well, the luxury of her surroundings. She’s usually either too preoccupied with her reason for being there, or two focused on trying to extricate herself without complications.

Which brings her back to…

She is a little surprised she didn’t wake up when Tony left, but she supposes that, given his reputation, he’s had more than enough opportunity to perfect his own exit strategy. A girl’s got to admire that kind of talent.

Maybe that was the problem: a little too much goddamned admiration on her part. It’s not like she likes the guy — seriously, he’s a grade-A asshole — but she’s never needed to like someone in order to fuck their brains out. Sometimes it’s even better if she doesn’t. (Less risk of complications that way. She’s always been allergic to… complications. She much prefers her assignations to be neat and tidy; no loose ends to trip her up or tie her down. There are much more important things for her to spend her time and attention on.)

No, actually, her problem is that she kinda has a weakness for smart, confident and abrasive, which are three of the man’s main qualities right there. Plus, he’s easy on the eye and can certainly fill out a suit. Which leads her right back to admiring his talent…

Great. Now she’s going round in circles.

It’s not like she regrets the sex itself. She’d figured pretty much even odds of him being either every bit as good as his reputation suggested, or just about as bad as a narcissistic billionaire playboy could possibly get. It had been a very — very *very* — pleasant surprise to discover that it was closer to the former than the latter. Yep, absolutely positively no regrets on that front. (Ten out of ten, would fuck again. If, y’know, it wasn’t such a horrendously bad idea.) With hindsight, maybe sleeping with the CEO of the main subject of her latest in-depth investigation possibly wasn’t her wisest move ever. Especially given the number of people who are likely to have taken photos of the famous — or infamous — Tony Stark leading off his latest ‘conquest.’

The fact that she was leading him — that she considers *him* the conquest here — is neither here nor there. It shouldn’t have happened. It wouldn’t have happened, certainly not after the frankly laughable come-on he tried on her earlier in the evening. But then… Then, during her attempts to get something quotable out of him, they actually started talking. Not a serious conversation; far from it, actually. But it was fun. She enjoyed trading barbs with him, and she could tell the enjoyment wasn’t exactly one-sided. And the fact that he got distracted part-way through an exchange and started designing some sort of more efficient cooling mechanism for… something or other? Frankly, that only added to his appeal. Hand on heart, though, she was only intending to flirt. Well, maybe tease a little; get him all hot and bothered and then sashay on out of there leaving him wanting what he couldn’t have. But she got a little *too* caught up in the game, and when he started responding in kind, she supposes it was only inevitable that she took things to their natural conclusion.

Stupid, but inevitable.

Story of her goddamned life, sometimes.

Well. Dwelling on it won’t help, especially not while she’s still in his bed. Time to get up and at ‘em. Or something.

Making herself leave the bed is harder than she expects, but determination triumphs over laziness. It’s not cold, but she pulls on one of Tony’s shirts as she prowls around the bedroom, unabashedly checking the place out. (She’s learned the hard way that cleaners don’t necessarily knock if they’re not expecting to find anyone in the room, and inadvertently flashing Tony Stark’s maid is hardly going to improve Christine’s day any.) It’s nice. Less ostentatious than she was expecting, but she approves of the clean lines and sleek design aesthetic. The voice of the computer interface — of *course* there’s a computer interface — sudden and (unless she’s imagining things) disapproving, startles her a little, making her stumble back.

“That’s Jarvis. He runs the house.”

The voice from behind her startles her some more, making her turn sharply towards the speaker. She’s almost relieved to find herself face to face with an actual, real live human, but then the recognition kicks in and she realises that the woman standing there, looking at (looking down her nose at) her is… Pepper Potts!

Her brain freezes, then goes into overdrive; what feels like a thousand and one thoughts vying for space at the front of her mind. Ms Virginia “Pepper” Potts! Here! The woman without whom, Christine is pretty damned sure, Stark Industries would have fallen apart a long time ago. A woman she’s come to respect, even though she’s never actually met her. It’s not like she thinks she knows Pepper, not really, but she has delved pretty deeply into her background — as she’s done with everyone even remotely connected with SI, as far as she can — and the impression that she’s formed…

Christine really wishes she’d been able to have a conversation with the woman; that her investigation of SI hadn’t, of necessity, put the two of them on opposite sides.

(Loath as she is to admit it, she doesn’t have as many friends as she would like. Acquaintances, contacts, occasional friends-with-benefits; she has those in spades. Real, genuine, people-she-can-just-hang-out-with-and-be-herself type friends though? Not so much. And it’s not like she regrets that, not really, but…)

Luckily, all this flashes through her mind in no more time than it takes for a sharp breath of surprise. (Anyway, she’s never been one for dwelling on what-ifs and might-have-beens.) With barely even an effort, she kicks her brain back in gear and forces herself to focus on the here and now. (She’s just thankful that at least she hasn’t started babbling.) Pepper doesn’t seem at all surprised that she’s there, barely even glancing in her direction as she continues talking.

“I have your clothes here; they've been dry cleaned and pressed. And there's a car waiting for you outside that will take you anywhere you'd like to go.”

(Cleaning her clothes? Providing transport? Does Tony do this for all his companions, or is this something just for her? She suspects it’s more the former. Not that she’s complaining — putting on last night’s clothes wasn’t exactly something she was looking forward to, and it’s a real blessing not to have to get a cab in her evening attire. Or, worse, to brave public transport. But at the same time, she feels a little…)

(She breaks off the thought before it can reach a conclusion, shelving it for some other time and place. Not here, and not now.)

(Maybe not ever.)

Pepper’s tone is perfectly polite, her demeanour perfectly composed, and yet there’s something there; something in the set of her jaw, which seems to hold a certain tightness underneath the blandly pleasant expression.

“You must be the famous Pepper Potts,” Christine drawls, just for something to say.

Pepper smiles and nods. “Indeed I am,” she says lightly.

Christine was planning on saying something equally bland and polite. She was definitely going to thank her for the arranging the dry cleaning and car. She wasn’t raised in a barn, after all. But then Pepper actually looks at her, as opposed to looking in her vague general direction. Just a quick glance up and down, but there’s something — or, Christine thinks she sees something — dismissive. Maybe even judgemental. Maybe. It’s hard to be sure, but even the suggestion of it puts her hackles right up. It makes her feel defensive. And when Christine feels defensive, she goes on the attack. So without even really thinking about it, she reaches right for the words that all her research tells her will cut the deepest, loosing them like darts.

“After all these years, Tony still has you picking up the dry cleaning.”

That hits home. She can tell by the way Pepper stiffens fractionally, the way her eyes glitter like chips of ice. (And if she regrets the words as soon as they’re beyond her ability to recall; if there’s shame mixed in with the brief rush of triumph… That’s not something she’s willing to think about right now.)

“I do anything and everything Mr. Stark requires. Including occasionally taking out the trash. Will that be all?”

Pepper’s smile could cut glass. Christine merely stiffens her spine and gives a razor-edged smile of her own, carelessly raking her hair back with one hand like she isn’t fazed in the slightest. (Like it doesn’t hurt to have someone like Pepper consider her trash.)

“No, I’m good,” she says airily. “I wouldn’t want to keep you from your undoubtedly busy schedule. I can see myself out.”

It doesn’t look like she’ll be having that conversation with Ms Potts after all.

* * * * *

**Present: Natasha**

As soon as the words are out of her mouth, Nadia knows she probably shouldn’t have said them. But when Chrissie rounds on her with flashing eyes, she can’t precisely bring herself to regret it.

“How *dare* you?” Chrissie begins furiously. “I-“

“Hey, hey,” Nadia interrupts, spreading her hands in a conciliatory, calming gesture. “I’m not judging. What you do in your own time is your business. Just trying to figure out why Ms Rodriguez is so keen to have you make the rounds right now. Given a bit of googling, it’s not too hard to put two and two together and get something in the region of four.”

Chrissie starts to say something, then stops and shakes her head. “Yeah,” she sighs, then narrows her eyes at Nadia as if daring her to make something of it.

“Fucking sucks, doesn’t it?” Nadia asks quietly.

That actually startles a smile out of her.

“Too fucking right,” she says with feeling. “So, I’m stuck giving interviews to remind people that I’m not just my sex life. Which shouldn’t even be *relevant* here. Seriously!”

“Not even if you fuck someone you’re investigating?” Nadia asks. She tries *really* hard to keep the smirk off her face, but even if she’d succeeded she doesn’t think that would have stopped Chrissie fixing her with the death glare that surely would have reduced a lesser mortal to nothing more than dust and ashes. Nadia, however, is made of sterner stuff. She returns Chrissie’s gaze calmly, quirking an eyebrow at her. “It’s not like there isn’t such a thing as conflict of interest,” she points out. “And emotional entanglements can make things… messy.”

She can hear the distaste in her voice as she pronounces the last word.

“Who said it was an emotional entanglement?” Chrissie fires back, her voice hard. “You’re making unwarranted assumptions.”

“Didn’t say it *was*,” Nadia says, keeping her manner easy and relaxed, despite the way Chrissie’s clear fury is quickening her breath and making her heart beast faster. “Just pointing out the issues it potentially raises.” She raises her hands again, shrugging lazily. “Again, not judging. Just asking questions.”

It’s not clear whether Chrissie is actually mollified, but she doesn’t rip Nadia’s head off, and she actually does seem to consider her words before replying.

(The debriefing has wandered significantly from the topic of interest, but this avenue of enquiry does have the potential to forge a deeper connection with the subject, thus facilitating subsequent attempts at information retrieval. Additionally, in Romanoff’s assessment, Everhart’s talents, connections and interests, make her a potential longer-term asset. Given the relative lack of urgency of the timetable, Romanoff judges that cultivating the connection is a worthwhile investment of time and effort, and that pursuing it is unlikely to compromise the current objective.)

“I don’t need to justify myself to you, or to anyone,” Chrissie bites out. “But.” She takes a deep breath, air hissing through clenched teeth on the exhale in a sharp, frustrated sigh. “This *is* an interview, so I will answer your questions. This time.”

There’s a definite warning note there, and Nadia nods to show that the message is received loud and clear.

“Okay,” she says.

“First.” Chrissie holds up a finger in illustration. Her fingers are long and elegant, Nadia notes, the nails cut short and neatly manicured. “It was just a night of recreational sex between consenting adults. No *emotions* involved. Second.” She holds up another finger. “I don’t know about you, but *I* don’t make a habit of letting my personal life affect my professional decisions. Third.”

Nadia resists the urge to point out that it now looks like she’s making a scout salute.

“If you think I’m mistaken, or lying, or whatever, I invite you to read my articles a little more carefully. I stand by my work, and I’m confident that you’ll find no evidence of any conflict of interest. Fourth.” One step away from a pledge of allegiance. Or an open-handed slap. “I was investigating Stark the company, rather than Stark the man. At that point, he was my source, not my subject. Maybe that’s too subtle a difference for the rank and file, but it’s an important one.” She gives another of those sharp smiles. “And I hardly think it’s reasonable to blame me for failing to predict both that Tony Stark would become a superhero *and* that I’d end up landing a post-reveal interview.”

“Did you get that interview because you had sex with him?” Nadia was going to be good — well, good-ish — but the question just slips out. Rather than biting her head off, though, Chrissie actually seems amused.

“I got that interview *despite* having sex with him. It was Virginia’s decision — that’s Ms Potts, Tony’s executive assistant. Tony didn’t have anything to do with it. I gather he raised some objections when he was informed, but…” Unexpectedly, a smile flickers over her lips. It looks… wicked. “He was overruled.”

(Romanoff is certain that someone back at headquarters will be filing that little titbit of information away. )

((Natasha makes adjustments to the relevant profiles.))

Nadia can’t help returning the smile.

“You know Pepper Potts?” she asks. “You think you could get me an interview?”


	4. Chapter 4

**Past: Christine**

Christine frowns at her computer screen. She reads the short message through again, as if repetition will somehow help to distil further meaning from the words. It doesn’t. Not that the message is gibberish or anything. She understands it just fine. It just doesn’t make sense. Why would Pepper Potts, of all people, invite her out for coffee? She starts typing a response, then stops, then deletes the handful of words, then stops again, then gets up and paces for a few moments, thinking, then sits down again, then cancels the reply and sits staring at her screen once more. After a few moments of that, she shakes her head and quickly fires off a reply, hitting send before she can second-guess herself again.

Because, really: what were the odds that she was going to do anything other than accept?

She arrives at the little out of the way coffee shop nearly ten minutes early, but she’s somehow unsurprised to find Pepper already there. She has a laptop in front of her and a phone tucked in the crook of her shoulder, apparently busy multitasking. A mostly empty coffee cup and a half-eaten pastry sit to her side. As Christine watches, she snatches a quick bite of the pastry and a mouthful of coffee before either resuming her previous conversation, or starting a new one. It all looks very efficient, if not at all good for the digestion. 

Christine joins the queue, looking around the coffee shop with interest (when she isn’t surreptitiously watching Pepper). This place seems quite busy considering it’s a little off the beaten track, its clientele an odd mix of bohemian and businesslike. Judging from the number of laptops in evidence, many of the customers seem to be using this place as an office. Just as Pepper is, apparently. Christine can’t help wondering if she visits this place often, and if so why. It’s not like she doesn’t have an office of her own. Or maybe she’s just trying to make sure she doesn’t lose too much working time on this meeting with Christine. But then, why not just have Christine come to her office? But… there’s really no use in speculating wildly. Not when she’s going to get her questions answered soon enough. Hopefully.

The queue moves relatively quickly, and Christine soon finds herself before the counter placing her order. A sudden impulse makes her add:

“And another one of whatever the redhead over there is having.”

“Sure thing,” says the barista cheerfully.

Christine justifies it to herself by noting that Pepper’s mug is empty of all but the very last dregs. And their last meeting did not precisely go well. (Which, Christine may be willing to admit, wasn’t entirely Pepper’s fault. Not entirely. Even though there was absolutely no call for that ‘trash’ comment.) Anyway, whatever this is about, it can’t hurt to have something to sweeten Pepper’s mood a little. Not a bribe exactly, but… Okay. A bribe.

Whatever works.

Pepper seems to be too wrapped up in her work to have any attention to spare for her surroundings, but she doesn’t seem at all startled when Christine sits down across from her. Not so oblivious after all, then. She nods to acknowledge Christine’s presence, holding up one finger in a ‘just a moment’ gesture while she finishes off her phone conversation. Maybe Christine chafes at the command in that gesture, at the way it makes her feel like a lowly intern all over again, but she fancies she does a pretty passable job of keeping that irritation from her face. She nods agreeably enough, and doesn’t grit her teeth when she realises that Pepper isn’t even looking at her.

To distract herself, she slides Pepper’s fresh drink towards her and busies herself in taking off her coat and hanging it neatly over the back of the chair. By the time she’s done, Pepper is setting her phone down and giving her what can only be described as an appraising look.

“Thank you for coming, Ms Everhart,” she says briskly.

Christine shrugs. “How could I refuse such an intriguing invitation?” she murmurs.

“Quite.” Pepper smiles thinly, then nods towards the cup of coffee near her right hand. “What’s this?”

“Cinammon latté with whipped cream,” Christine says, meeting her gaze. “It looked like you were running low on fuel. I figured a busy woman like you would probably need a refill.”

“I wasn’t planning on indulging *quite* so much,” Pepper says thoughtfully. Christine starts to bristle, but her irritation is defused when Pepper’s smile broadens a little, and she continues with: “But thank you. I appreciate it.”

“You’re welcome,” Christine says. For a few moments, both of them sip their drinks in silence. That’s about as long as Christine can keep her curiosity in check. “So, what did you want to see me about?” she asks, striving for casual and — she flatters herself — succeeding.

Pepper straightens her spine a little, setting her mug down with a quiet click.

“I owe you an apology,” she says. She pauses, as if to give Christine the chance to offer a response of some kind, but Christine is too busy trying not to choke on her coffee. Of all the things she might have expected, it certainly wasn’t *this*. And then there’s Pepper’s tone of voice. Not grudging, not reluctant, not even bitter. Just… matter-of-fact. The same way Christine imagines she might ask for the latest figures on… something or other. Financial forecasts or something. Whatever. She’s just about mustering up the wherewithal to ask something along the lines of ‘what for?’ but Pepper apparently tires of waiting for her to speak. “I shouldn’t have implied that you were trash,” she says, still in that same businesslike tone. “It wasn’t fair of me.” Now her tone does harden slightly, something cold glinting in her eyes. “Despite the provocation.”

“That’s it?” Christine asks, finally managing to find her voice. “That’s what you wanted to see me about?”

“I would have said it sooner, but I don’t have a lot of free time.” Strange as it seems, her next words actually sound faintly amused. “What with all that dry cleaning to pick up, and everything.”

Christine can’t help wincing internally at the reminder of her own words. She thinks she manages to keep her expression neutral, though. At least she hopes she does, especially with the way Pepper’s sharp eyes are studying her. She wavers for a moment, then with a metaphorical shrug she plunges onwards.

“I’m sorry for provoking you. What I said wasn’t fair either.” Her conscience compels her to add: “I know you do a lot more than pick up dry-cleaning.”

God knows she hasn’t gotten as far as she has without the ability to admit her own mistakes. No matter how much it makes her cringe inside.

Pepper gives her a searching look, and then nods.

“Good,” she says, her expression softening a little as she picks up her mug. She takes a slow sip, then cradles it in her hands as if for warmth.

Christine finds herself wanting to relax, wanting to believe this is really as simple as apologies given and received; as reciprocal admissions of fault, but… But she can’t. She’s still on edge, still remembering the defensive, guilty feeling of being caught in Tony Stark’s bedroom by Tony Stark’s personal assistant. Feeling guilty even though she hadn’t done anything wrong. Feeling just like the trash that Pepper said she was. Which is ridiculous, because Christine Everhart is *far* too confident in herself and her choices to feel… To feel like…

“Is there anything between you and Tony?” she finds herself blurting out.

As soon as the words are out of her mouth, she could just kick herself. Especially when she sees the way Pepper stiffens ever-so-slightly; the way the glitter of arctic ice is back in her eyes. Christine cringes internally, even as she draws herself up to weather whatever scathing remark Pepper is going to toss her way. (Because the one thing she can’t ever do in her business is show weakness, or the wolves at the gate will eat her alive. Because when she embarks on a course of action, she has to commit; has to go all in, all the way, full steam ahead and damn the consequences. It’s how she’s got this far, it’s how she drags herself onwards and upwards every single time she gets knocked down. Because backing down is a fool’s gambit and whatever Chrissie — *Christine* — Everhart may be, she is *nobody’s* fool.)

Despite the sharpness in her eyes, the barely-perceptible tension in her jaw, Pepper takes her time before uttering so much as a single word in response. She takes a long slow sip of a her coffee, holding Christine’s gaze the entire time. Christine finds herself unable to look away, almost hypnotised by that glacial stare. Pepper leans back in her chair a little, giving a quiet sigh of satisfaction. Christine finds herself breathing with her, letting out the breath she hadn’t even realised she was holding.

“I do like the coffee here,” Pepper murmurs, the non-sequitur throwing Christine a little. “The baristas are always willing to go the extra mile to make sure you get exactly what you want. It’s one of the reasons I like coming to this café.”

“It is good coffee,” Christine cautiously agrees. She samples her own drink, which has cooled sufficiently for her to be able to take a decent-sized swallow. No sugar, no syrups — not that she has anything against syrups, but they’re a special treat rather than for every day — just strong coffee and a splash of cream. Real cream, mind-you; none of that low-fat stuff. Or, worse, soy-milk. She doesn’t mind almond-milk on very rare occasions, but in general she prefers the real thing.

A small frown crosses Pepper’s face. “Of course, these days I don’t have the time to come here nearly as often as I would like,” she says, regretfully. “But you know how it is.”

Christine nods slowly. “I do.”

There’s another brief pause, just long enough for Christine to wonder where this is going, when in a light, almost diffident tone, Pepper asks:

“So, you believe that the only reason for hostility between women is competition over a man.” She shakes her head. “Ms Everhart, I am disappointed.”

Christine bristles, her eyes narrowing as she sets her cup down and leans forward.

“Funny. I don’t recall asking for your opinion. And I can’t help noticing that you haven’t answered the question.”

She’s quite pleased at the way her voice remains low and even, the way she keeps her temper more or less on its leash. Maybe she’s onto something here, maybe she isn’t. It doesn’t really matter — mere prurient gossip is not what she’s built her career on, and she has no plans to change that any time soon. She’s just trying to understand all this.

“I don’t need to answer the question,” Pepper fires back. “It’s entirely irrelevant to the matter at hand. You wouldn’t even be asking it if I were male.”

Christine starts to say she wouldn’t be so sure about that, but bites the words back as being neither here nor there. She knows what Pepper means, and the other woman is… Well, she’s not exactly foaming at the mouth or anything; she’s still perfectly calm and composed. But there’s something in her eyes, a certain tension in the way she holds herself, a note in her voice that sounds a little like… frustration?

“You weren’t happy to find me in Tony’s bedroom,” she says slowly, trying on the thought to see how it fits. She’s sure she isn’t wrong, but… Maybe there’s a little more to the story than she’s let herself think.

Pepper actually rolls her eyes.

“Ms Everhart, what exactly do you think my job is?”

“You’re Tony’s personal assistant,” Christine replies slowly. She’s not sure where this is going, but some imp of the perverse makes her parrot Pepper’s own words back to her. “You do anything and everything Mr Stark requires.”

Pepper gives a tight smile. “True enough. Within limits. But, believe it or not, that doesn’t mean I’m some kind of glorified secretary and housekeeper combined. There’s-”

“I know that,” Christine says. She wouldn’t normally interrupt, but something about the tone of this conversation is making her feel (guilty) ill at ease, and she suddenly feels the need to reassure Pepper (as if a woman like Pepper actually needs any reassurance) that she knows what she does. What she’s capable of.

“Do you, now?” Pepper murmurs, not sounding at all convinced. “Then you know that what I do takes talent, training, and dedication. Even aside from the whole genius-wrangling aspects of it.”

Christine can’t help smiling a little at ‘genius-wrangling’. From everything she know about Tony Stark, that’s not an inapt phrase.

“I know,” she says, again. “I never thought that-”

“But there are certain duties that I never signed up for.” Pepper makes a vague gesture with one hand, pursing her lips slightly, but her tone is nothing but blandly pleasant as she continues. “That aren’t officially part of my job description. I do them, because someone has to and, honestly, I’m the best suited. But that doesn’t mean I have to be *happy* about it.”

“Like kicking out Tony’s one-night-stands?” Christine asks, her voice just as light and pleasant as Pepper’s. She doesn’t quite know why she’s needling the other woman like this, but she just can’t help herself. And, hell, she’s got more out of her by provocation than she thinks she’ll ever get by playing nice. So why break the habit of a lifetime?

“Like ensuring that Mr Stark’s *guests* have everything that they require upon their departure,” Pepper corrects, her tone now brooking absolutely no argument whatsoever. Not that Christine is planning on arguing with her, not really, but she can’t very well let that go unremarked, so…

“And you don’t like that.”

Pepper shrugs, the motion smooth and economical. “It’s not precisely what I trained for,” she says wryly.

“Not what you expected?”

“Not what I trained for,” she says, again.

Christine studies her thoughtfully, still wondering about her question; the one that she still hasn’t had an answer to. She’s half tempted to ask again, to push until she either gets the response she was looking for or has enough information to draw her own conclusions. Only half tempted, rather than already leaping in, because unless she’s reading this wrong, there’s still a chance that she and Pepper will reach something like a detente. But if she pushes now…

“Alright then,” she says softly. She takes another slow swallow of coffee. “This really is very good,” she murmurs, giving Pepper a half-smile. “I’m going to have to remember this place.”

Pepper returns her smile, the look in her eyes softening as it did before Christine asked her question. She looks thoughtful for a moment, like she’s weighing options. Christine waits, curious to hear what she’s going to say next.

“Do you know how I rose from being a lowly finance drone to the lofty heights of my current position?” she says, apropos of nothing.

Well, perhaps not quite apropos of nothing. Christine supposes it’s not exactly unconnected to their conversation so far. Anyway, she knows the answer to this question. It’s one of the reasons why she admired this woman so much before that fateful meeting. (Admires her still, in fact.)

“You found an error in one of Tony’s calculations. It was before some big presentation or something and a mistake would have been disastrous. Your attempts to contact him by phone and e-mail bounced, so you went to see him in person. Despite his bodyguards’ objections. He promoted you on the spot.”

“Close enough,” Pepper says, nodding. Her grin widens, but there’s something almost fierce about it now, something that makes Christine glad that — unless she’s read this completely wrong — she’s somehow made her way off Pepper’s shit list. “Do you know how they *say* I got my job?”

Christine thinks about dissembling for all of a fraction of a second before squaring her shoulders and looking Pepper directly in the eyes.

“They say you slept your way into it.”

“Euphemistic, but yes.” Narrowing her eyes, she continues in a low, firm tone that says she won’t brook any disagreement. “It’s not true, of course.”

“Of course.” Everything she knows about Pepper’s career so far; her body language and tone of voice… Christine believes her implicitly. But she has the feeling that a simple ‘of course’ isn’t going to be enough to Pepper. So she gives a lopsided grin and slouches in her chair. “You’re way too smart for that. Anyway, from what I know about Mr Stark” — and if there’s any mockery in the way she pronounces the name, it isn’t directed at Pepper — “I doubt it would work.”

“No?” Pepper says, sounding nothing more than mildly curious about her response, despite the interested glint in her eyes.

“No,” Christine says. “Tony” — she deliberately reverts to using his first name — “doesn’t seem like the kind of person to promote someone just because he’s had relations with them.”

More like the kind of person who tends to avoid the individual in question afterwards, unless she misses her guess. Commitment doesn’t exactly seem to be his strong suit. (Which means she’s probably only made it harder to collar him for that interview she’s been desperately trying to set up following yesterday’s big reveal, but she’ll worry about that later.)

“I couldn’t possibly comment about that,” says Pepper quietly, but she doesn’t seem displeased by Christine’s answer. “But I will say,” she continues, a little more seriously. “That if there was even the slightest whiff of anything… improper… between Mr Stark and myself, no matter how baseless, it would only serve to fan the flames of rumour.” Something crosses her face then, there and gone too quickly for Christine to tease out its meaning. (But it does make her wonder…) “I would find that *highly* inconvenient.”

“I can imagine,” Christine murmurs. She can do more than imagine; she can remember. But that’s more than she feels like sharing right now.

For a few moments, they drink their respective drinks in what feels like companionable silence. Christine is a little startled to realise that she likes this. That, despite the somewhat uncharitable thoughts that went through her mind after that unfortunate encounter at Tony’s place, she likes Pepper. Not as an abstract thing, based purely on what she knows about her, but as a living, breathing woman. Even if she isn’t too sure that Pepper reciprocates the sentiment. Still, it sounds like there’s at least a chance that they’ve moved past their first, disastrous meeting. So maybe this won’t be the only time they meet for coffee.

Stranger things have happened, after all.

“Well,” says Pepper, her businesslike tone drawing Christine from her musings. “This has been… pleasanter than expected, but I’m afraid that I must be going.” She smiles ruefully as she starts to gather her things. “A face-to-face meeting I can’t miss.”

“I wouldn’t want to make you late,” Christine drawls.

“Oh, you won’t.” Pepper’s answering smile — really more of a grin — is absolutely genuine; Christine would bet on it. “I made sure to allow plenty of time.” Finishing off her coffee, she slides her efficiently-packed bag onto her shoulder and glances around as if to check that she hasn’t forgotten anything. Christine would lay good odds that Pepper Potts doesn’t forget things. “There’s just one more thing,” she says, turning to face Christine, phone in hand.

“Oh?” Christine asks, her curiosity piqued.

“How is tomorrow afternoon for you?”

Christine blinks, puzzled. “Tomorrow afternoon?”

“Yes. What’s your availability?”

“I have a meeting with my editor at twelve-thirty,” Christine answers, still none the wiser. “Why?”

“Can you get over to the Stark Industries offices for two pm?”

Pepper is apparently ignoring her request for enlightenment. Letting instinct guide her, she decides to just go with it. At least for now. She thinks for a moment, calculating travel times.

“I should be able to make that,” she says.

“Good.” Pepper makes a note on her phone. “Ask for me at reception. You’ll be expected.”

“You planning on telling me what this is about?” Christine asks, patience fizzling.

“Oh, didn’t I say?” Pepper murmurs, and Christine hadn’t even realised that Pepper Potts *could* look mischievous. “You’re interviewing Mr Stark about his, shall we say, alter ego for Vanity Fair magazine. It’s an exclusive.”

Christine just stares for a moment or two, too surprised to speak. Not too surprised to notice the way that Pepper’s smile widens with unabashed amusement at her reaction, though. It’s that observation that enables her to shake off the paralysis.

“Why?” she asks, eyes narrowing. Because if this is some kind of joke at her expense, she swears she will not be held responsible for her actions.

Pepper shrugs, slipping her phone away.

“Now the cat’s out of the bag, it needs… handling. At the moment public opinion is on our side, but that can change. I intend to make sure it doesn’t. That’s where you come in.”

“I see.” And she does. Public opinion is a fickle beast. Right now, Iron Man is a rock star, but it wouldn’t take much for him to become a pariah. An aggressive PR campaign might head off that possibility. Well, unless (until) Tony does something that even Pepper can’t fix. But until that happens… It’s a good plan. That does leave one question unanswered, however… “So, why me?”

“Why not you, Ms Everhart?”

Christine frowns. “I thought you didn’t like me all that much?”

“How is that relevant?” Pepper fires back. “You’re a talented journalist. Why wouldn’t I want the best person for the job? Besides.” She shrugs, her lips quirking up at the corners in a small but genuine-seeming smile. “First impressions can be revised.”

Without meaning to, Christine finds herself returning the smile.

“Was this always the plan, Ms Potts?” she asks, softly. Somehow, she doubts it was a spur of the moment decision. She’s not sure Pepper does anything on the spur of the moment.

Pepper actually laughs. “Did you really think I invited you out here just to apologise?”

When she puts it like that…

“I suppose not.”

“So, do you accept?”

“Yes.” It isn’t a hard decision. An exclusive like this… it won’t exactly hurt her career. Christine Everhart is many things, but stupid isn’t one of them. Impulsively, she adds: “And please call me Christine.”

“Thank you, Christine.” Pepper nods, and then grimaces. “Please don’t feel the need to call me Pepper, though.” Christine feel a pang of disappointment, but Pepper — Ms Potts — hasn’t quite finished yet. “Virginia will do just fine.”

Now it’s Christine’s turn to laugh. “Nice to meet you, Virginia.” It’s going to be hard not to think of her as Pepper, but she’ll manage somehow.

“Likewise.” There’s a flash of steel in Pep- in Virginia’s expression as she adds. “I hope.” The steel is gone again as if it was never there. Christine knows better than to dismiss it, though. She isn’t going to forget who she’s dealing with. “Anyway,” Virginia adds, smiling pleasantly. “I’m afraid I really do have to run, but I’ll expect you tomorrow at two o’ clock sharp. You have my contact details if there are any problems. Until tomorrow, Christine.”

“Wait,” Christine bursts out, unable to hold back the question that’s been coalescing in the back of her mind.

“Yes?” Virginia says, eyebrows raised in a ‘I hope this is important’ kind of way.

“What does Tony think about this? About being interviewed by me, I mean.” It’s not like she cares, not precisely, but it would be helpful to know just what she’s going to be walking into tomorrow afternoon. She hopes Virginia doesn’t take the question the wrong way.

“Oh, Mr Stark doesn’t know yet.” From the look on Virginia’s face, she isn’t annoyed. If anything she looks… amused.

Christine, however, isn’t amused. This could backfire horribly, and if it does she’s pretty sure that Virginia wouldn’t be the one caught in the blast radius.

“But-“ she begins. Virginia interrupts her.

“As you said earlier, I do anything and everything Mr Stark requires. That occasionally includes things he doesn’t know he requires.” The fierceness is back in her smile again, making her look almost… predatory. “I’ll make sure he understands that this is for his own good. He won’t give you any trouble.”

“Really?” Christine doesn’t even try to keep the skepticism from her voice.

“Well, no more than he otherwise would,” Virginia clarifies, twitching her shoulders ruefully.

Christine considers for all of a heartbeat before deciding that she can live with it.

“Then I’ll see you tomorrow, Virginia.”

“I look forward to it.”

* * * * *

**Past**

I am Iron Man  
Or, how I learned to stop worrying and love the suit.

By Christine Everhart

Four simple words; words that echoed all the way around the world. Echoed like a shot from the guns he no longer makes, perhaps. Words that are still echoing, even now, judging by the fluctuations in Stark Industries stock prices. I can only assume that hastily-called meetings are being held right now in boardrooms and military establishments around the world as people try to figure out how to respond.

As for the cause of all this fuss? I know for a fact that *he* isn’t at any of those meetings; isn’t closeted with the president or having a crisis conference with his board members, or consulting with military big-wigs. He isn’t doing any of that, because he’s right here with me.

“Good morning, Mr Stark. Or should I call you Iron Man?”

“How about Tony,” he says, laughing. The usually ebullient billionaire seems to be in exceptionally high spirits as he fidgets with the jacket of his well-tailored Armani suit. Of course, it’s another suit that’s making all the headlines at the moment…

* * * * *

**Present: Natasha**

Chrissie’s answering expression is strange.

“I’ve only met Ms Potts on three occasions, and one of those was…” She winces. “Let’s just say it wasn’t my finest hour.” Nadia badly wants more information, but she’s not sure it would be a good idea to push for it right now. “Try contacting her yourself if you’re interested,” Chrissie continues, looking like she finds the idea… amusing? “The worst she can do is say no.”

“Maybe I will,” Nadia muses. It could be interesting…

(Naturally, Romanoff has no intention of doing any such thing. Debriefing Potts was Coulson’s job, and any interference on her part would compromise his efforts.)

The silence that settles over the two of them for a moment or two seems less tense, somehow. Maybe even… companionable? Maybe. Nadia is cautiously reviewing possible avenues of approach when Chrissie suddenly makes a wordless, frustrated noise and throws her hands in the air.

“Look,” she says, half-standing up and surging forward in her seat until she’s practically eyeball to eyeball with Nadia. “This is off the record, okay?”

She pauses a moment, but apparently runs out of patience while Nadia is still catching up and figuring out what to say. Her palms hit the desk with an audible slapping sound, making Nadia jump a little in her seat.

“Okay!” Nadia really isn’t pleased at how startled she sounds, but there’s no sense fretting over spilled words. “I get it. Off the record.” She shakes her head and murmurs: “No need to beat up the furniture.”

Chrissie smiles fiercely.

“Off the record,” she says again. “I’m only human; I make mistakes. We all do. Maybe taking Tony to bed wasn’t my wisest move. But that *doesn’t* mean people get to judge me for it.” She starts quietly and evenly, but picks up the pace and volume as she continues to speak, words almost tumbling over each other by the end. “And it’s not just unfair but outright *offensive* that people would say things about me and my morals when they sure as shit wouldn’t say them about a man who did the exact same thing.” She narrows her eyes at Nadia as if she’s daring her to try to contradict her; to give her a reason. Judging discretion to be the better part of valour — for a change — Nadia remains silent. “I can tell you for nothing that it’s not any potential ‘conflict of interest’ those assholes are concerned about.”

She sits down again, breathing a little heavily, a stray tendril of hair curling around her flushed face. It’s probably a good job there’s a desk between them once more. If she were still in reach, Nadia might have been tempted to brush it back behind her ear.

Chrissie shakes her head.

“And I shouldn’t be saying any of this. Not to you. Not in the middle of one of the many interviews that are supposed to help repair the awful ‘damage’ to my reputation.” She makes air quotes around the word. They look sarcastic. “Because having it become known that you enjoy a good roll in the hay is somehow a form of damage. Anyway.” She shakes her head again. “I apologise for dumping this on you. Forget my extremely unprofessional outburst. Hell, forget I said any of this. Just ask the rest of your questions so we can get this whole thing over with.”

There are so many things that Nadia could say; that she wants to say. Nowhere on the list is an option where she just takes Chrissie at her word and pretends none of this ever happened. Where she goes back to asking prepared questions like a good little drone. That’s just not the way she’s wired.

(Romanoff sees an opportunity and takes it.) 

((Natasha is a little surprised at how detailed Nadia’s skin is proving to be. She isn’t concerned, but it’s definitely something that bears further study.))

“It’s okay,” she says, and her voice isn’t soft, or comforting, or any shit like that. It’s sympathetic, sure, but what it is most of all is matter-of-fact. “I get it.” She shrugs lazily, letting the smirk her lips seem best suited for spread all the way into a smile. A wry smile, admittedly, and almost certainly more than a little fey, but that doesn’t make it any less genuine. “It sucks donkey balls; no argument there. But you don’t need to worry about me. I know it might be hard to believe, but I’m on your side. Anyway, It’s not like I haven’t done ‘ill-advised’ before.” And, okay, maybe her smile is now probably more of a smirk, and she’d have to be a far better person than she is for her voice *not* to be edged with wickedness as she continues speaking. “Admittedly, none of them were named Tony Stark, but…”

Chrissie’s laugh sounds like it’s startled out of her. It’s a nice sound, and Nadia can’t help thinking that she’d like to hear it again.

“But were any of them people you ended up interviewing?” she asks, mirth making her voice unsteady and her eyes dance mischievously.

Nadia looks her directly in the eyes, shrugs, and in a low, smoky voice replies: “There’s a first time for everything…”

* * * * *

**Present: Christine**

Christine swallows, her throat suddenly dry as a desert. She starts to reach for her coffee cup, but belatedly remembers that she’s drained that already, turning the aborted gesture into tucking a possibly imaginary errant strand of hair behind her ear. Distantly, she wishes she’d remembered to ask Jessica to bring up a bottle of water. She does have one in her bag, but for some reason she can’t quite bring herself to tear her attention away from Nadia enough to search for it.

It suddenly occurs to her that she silence is stretching on just a little too long, and she should probably say something in response.

“So there is,” she murmurs, which probably isn’t at all the right thing, and she can’t believe she’s in this situation again so soon, but god-fucking-*dammit* Nadia’s been flirting with her all through this interview and — unless she’s very much mistaken, but she doesn’t think she is — that was pretty much a straight up invitation.

Nadia, apparently she knows *just* how to push her buttons. And…

And.

This is a bad idea. A really bad idea. A really bad, no good, *terrible* idea.

So, Christine is going to do the sensible thing for once. She’s going to ignore the way her libido is pretty much sitting up and begging for a treat and she’s going to be a goddamn grown up. She *is*.

Right.

So.

“But I think we’re getting a little off-topic,” she says firmly. (If not quite as firmly as she would like.) “Didn’t you say you had some more questions you wanted to ask?”

Nadia studies her for a moment, and then shrugs.

“Guess I did,” she drawls, and Christine tries not to think about the fact that she sounds disappointed. She glances down at the screen of her laptop. “Let’s see what’s on the list…”

* * * * *

**Present: Natasha**

As she packs up her things, Nadia muses that, all in all, it’s been a pretty good interview. With the information she has on Chrissie, she’s confident she can put together an awesome profile. And there’s definitely material enough for the scathing social commentary that’s supposed to be her stock-in-trade.

(Romanoff is fairly pleased, but not one hundred per cent satisfied.) 

((Even as she agrees with Romanoff’s assessment, Natasha wonders how much of that is due to her broad perfectionist streak.)) 

(She’s managed to get some useful intelligence out of Everhart, although she’s certain there are details the subject is holding back. Plus there’s whatever’s in the files she’s lifted off Everhart’s computer. )

((Natasha almost wants to roll her eyes at just how easy it is to get through what’s laughingly considered ‘security’ here. It’s not bad for a civilian set up, she supposes, but hardly a challenge to someone who’s sufficiently determined to crack it, or who has access to SHIELD tech. Not that she’s complaining.))

(She’s not expecting much from the files, but there might be something. Sifting through those won’t be her job, though — it’ll be down to the analysts back at base.)

Maybe it’s not the easiest interview she’s ever done, but she’s okay with that. More than okay, actually: easy is *boring*.

Well.

Aside from certain values of ‘easy’. Get the right one, and that can be anything *but* boring. But now she’s getting distracted.

“So, did you get everything you need?” Speaking of distractions…

“More or less,” Nadia says.

She looks up to meet Chrissie’s eyes, resisting the urge to let her gaze travel up over the other woman’s body. Much though she really likes pushing Chrissie’s buttons — and much though Chrissie was more than returning the favour at various points — it was pretty clear that she was making a concerted effort to keep things businesslike during the last part of the interview. Which, honestly, is kind of a pity. She really regrets that she seems to have spooked Chrissie into a retreat. Up until that perhaps ill-thought-out comment of hers, Chrissie was definitely giving as good as she got, and Nadia kinda thought there was a chance that…

“Good,” Chrissie replies, looking down and putting the mugs back on the tray in what’s pretty much a transparent excuse not to look at Nadia.

Oh, *hell*. She can’t leave things like this.

“Look,” Nadia says, before she can think better of it. “I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable. Wasn’t my intention.”

“You didn’t make me uncomfortable,” Chrissie says quickly. Too quickly, perhaps, but her smile looks real enough, if troubled. “Believe it or not, I actually had fun.”

Nadia can’t help grinning at the surprise in her voice.

“I think I’ll choose to take that as a compliment,” she says.

“You should,” Chrissie fires back with, some asperity. “This was so much less of an ordeal than I was expecting.”

“High praise indeed,” Nadia says, laughing. “In that same spirit, I have to tell you that I had fun, too. Despite expecting this to be like pulling teeth.”

Chrissie laughs too, visibly relaxing.

“I’m honoured,” she says, and holds out a hand. “It’s been good to meet you, Nadia.”

“Good to meet you too, Chrissie.” Nadia smirks as she shakes Chrissie’s hand, blithely ignoring the way her eyes narrow.

“Don’t push it,” Chrissie mutters, but though she squeezes Nadia’s hand just a little harder than is strictly required, there’s no real bite to her voice.

“Easy there, Xena.” Nadia retrieves her hand, making a show of shaking it out.

Chrissie rolls her eyes. “Wimp,” she mutters, grinning.

Nadia arches an eyebrow. “Is that a challenge?”

“Would you like it to be?” Chrissie retorts, quick as a flash, and then freezes, like she can’t quite believe the words that have come out of her mouth.

The obvious quip is just on the tip of Nadia’s tongue, ready to fly free, but something makes her bite it back, makes her say something else instead.

“There’s a bar I like; Jimmy’s Corner, over on West forty-fourth street. I’m going to be there tonight, around nine.”

There’s a flare of something in Chrissie’s eyes before her expression smooths into thoughtfulness. She studies Nadia.

“Why are you telling me this?” she asks softly.

Nadia shrugs. “You seem like fun. I’d like to get to know you better.” 

(Romanoff thinks there’s a better than even chance she’ll be able to get more information out of Everhart in a less formal setting.)

((Natasha judges there’s a good chance of being able to form a useful connection here.))

((Tasha just wants to jump her bones.)) 

“We can hang out; drink, talk, unwind. Whatever. No pressure.”

“It sounds like fun,” Chrissie says. “I don’t know if I can make tonight, though.”

Nadia shrugs. “If you can, you can. If you can’t, you can’t. I’ll be there either way.” Not waiting for a reply, she hauls on her backpack and heads for the door. “Anyway, I really need to haul ass. I’ll see myself out, don’t worry.” She opens the door, glancing back over her shoulder with what she’s sure is a particularly insolent smirk. “Goodbye, Ms Everhart.”

“Goodbye, Ms Vance,” Chrissie says, sounding amused. But before the door closes, Nadia hears her add: “Maybe I’ll see you later.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Present: Natasha**

“Are you certain it’s necessary to meet with Ms Everhart again?”

Agent Coulson doesn’t sound worried, not exactly, but he’s studying Romanoff in a way that suggests concern for her, personally, rather than just for the mission. She isn’t certain why. None of the data suggests any particular risk to her if she continues as suggested. As far as they can tell, the only people showing any abnormal interest in Everhart are SHIELD themselves, and there’s no reason to suspect someone may be setting a trap.

“In my opinion, there is more information to be gained from her, and little to no risk in making the attempt. Additionally, she may prove useful as an asset in the future.”

(Safely behind Romanoff’s eyes, Natasha allows herself the luxury of a frown, of tapping imaginary fingers on an equally imaginary desk. It’s not that she thinks what she’s saying isn’t a true and reasonable summary of the situation, but she has a nagging feeling that there’s a little more to it than that. She feels… invested… in this, and she’s not certain why. Why she —) 

((At least a part of her)) 

(At least by her standards — is fighting so hard for the continuation of this mission. The odds of Ms Everhart possessing any information that a) will prove vital to SHIELD, and b) they can’t uncover by themselves, are, she admits, fairly small. And yet…)

((And yet.))

(Her instincts are telling her that this is important, or that it could be. That it’s worth following up on.)

((That she needs to see Chrissie again.)) 

(Maybe the feeling is real. Maybe it’s just that troubling streak of perfectionism surfacing again, not wanting to leave a mission incomplete. Without sufficient data, she really has no way of knowing for sure *what* it is. So, in the absence of confounding factors, she’s inclined to err on the side of gathering more information. This mission is minimal risk, minimal exposure and minimal expenditure. Agent Romanoff isn’t needed for anything else right now, so why not go ahead and see what she can find out?)

((It makes sense. It does.))

(She just wishes she knew why she finds the thought disquieting.)

Coulson leans back in his chair, studying her over his steepled fingers, letting the silence stretch. The tactic is a basic one, but is often extremely effective. A surprisingly high proportion of people are simply uncomfortable with extended silence. That, especially in combination with feelings of guilt, consistently causes them to fill the silence with speech, often incriminating themselves in the process.

Fortunately, Romanoff is troubled neither by silence nor by conscience. She simply waits quietly, neither meeting nor avoiding Coulson’s assessing gaze, keeping her back straight, her ankles together and her hands neatly folded in her lap.

It comes as no surprise to her that Coulson is the one who speaks first.

“According to your report, Ms Everhart is likely expecting you to… seduce her.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you believe she’s likely to be… receptive to such a seduction attempt.”

“Yes, sir.”

The silence stretches again. Coulson’s repeated hesitation is highly uncharacteristic. Without obviously shifting her focus, Romanoff mentally runs through the checklist for assessing whether an agent has been compromised. She doesn’t think it likely, but there’s no harm in checking.

(Natasha is reasonably sure that Coulson hasn’t been compromised, and that she knows the cause of his obvious concern. She strongly doubts that he’s worried about her effectiveness in the field, or about the usefulness of continuing the mission.)

“You don’t have to do this, Natasha,” he says quietly, his eyes troubled. “Even in the unlikely event that Ms Everhart does possess information vital to SHIELD, there are other ways of obtaining it.”

She pauses before responding, as if considering her words. She isn’t, of course; she already knows what she’s going to say. But it’s been her experience, if she replies ‘too quickly’ to expressions of concern such as this, Coulson may believe that she has not properly thought through her response. Better to spend a few extra moments at the outset than be forced to waste time restating her position in several different ways.

“We won’t know what information Ms Everhart possesses until we obtain it,” she points out, eminently reasonably. “I’ve already laid the groundwork for this approach, which stands a reasonable chance of success. Other ways will take time to set up, and may not prove effective in the field.” She shrugs, expressing an uncertainty she does not feel. “I’m open to suggestions, but this is the best I’ve got.”

(Natasha can’t help feeling a certain dark amusement at Coulson’s clear discomfort. He’ll send her off on dangerous missions, on kill missions even, while barely batting an eye. But when her brief includes seducing someone; when there’s a strong likelihood she’ll actually end up taking the seduction all the way to its logical conclusion… That’s when he balks.)

(Even though nine times out of ten, he sends her out anyway.)

“Your logic is impeccable as always, Natasha,” he says dryly.

She gives an appropriate smile in response.

“I certainly hope so,” she says, matching his tone.

He briefly returns her smile, and then sobers again.

“I just want to make sure you know that you have a choice, that’s all.”

Romanoff doesn’t agree, but she knows better than to say so. (Natasha resists the urge to roll her eyes.)

“Understood,” she says. “Thank you.” Letting her smile become somewhat wry, she shakes her head. “But, honestly, it’s not the worst assignment I’ve ever had.”

To her surprise, Coulson actually flinches a little. He attempts to cover it with a bland smile, but it’s too late. She doesn’t react, of course, but she does make a mental note. (Natasha curses inwardly at her miscalculation. She should have realised her handler was feeling a little too sensitive for that kind of humour. Especially after…) 

((No. She’s not going to think about that right now.)) 

(Still, there’s no point in castigating herself for something it’s too late to change. Best to just move on.)

“Very well, then,” he says in a neutral tone. “Proceed as planned.”

It’s clearly a dismissal. Romanoff nods and stands up, her mind already on the practicalities of the task ahead.

“Thank you, sir.”

* * * * *

**Present: Clint**

There’s a small knot of people gathered around the coffee machine, talking in hushed voices. There’s a particular kind of suppressed excitement about them that immediately pricks Clint’s curiosity, so he deliberately takes a roundabout route and walks softly, straining to hear the conversation.

“She has to like it, though, right?” one of the cubicle drones is saying. (‘Analysts,’ he imagines Tasha correcting him, looking at him with one of those expressions that means she’s either amused, or thinking about trying to kick his ass. Or both.) Clint vaguely thinks the man’s name is Patel. “I mean, she wouldn’t keep agreeing to those kinds of missions if she didn’t enjoy them in some way.”

“*I* heard she specifically requested this one,” someone else says (Carstairs? Sheila Carstairs), her voice brimming with barely suppressed glee.

Clint has a bad feeling about this. A feeling like he’s going to end up doing something that *someone* is going to regret. Probably him, if Tasha ever finds out about it. Which she undoubtedly will.

Maybe he should listen for just a little longer, make sure they’re talking about what he *thinks* they’re talking about. And if they are, he can respond in a mature and considered fashion.

Yeah, not even he’s convinced by that one.

“Can’t say I blame her,” the third of member of the trio chips in, practically leering. Clint doesn’t remember his name — if he ever knew it — so he promptly christens the man Chuckles, for no reason other than it amuses him to do so. “If I had the chance to tap that, I’d grab it with both hands and-“

“You can stop there,” Sheila interrupts. “Really don’t need the details, thanks.”

Chuckles, appropriately enough, chuckles. “Just saying. Christine Everhart’s hot. No wonder the Widow wants a piece of-“

That’s it. Clint’s heard enough.

Time to make his presence known.

* * * * *

**Present: Christine**

Christine pauses on the pavement, wondering what the hell she’s doing here. Actually, that’s the wrong question. She knows exactly what she’s doing, she just doesn’t know why. No. No, that’s not true either. She knows what, why, where, how (who?); all of that. It’s just that it’s a really bad idea.

But she’s going to do it anyway.

With that out of the way, she strides determinedly through the door, pausing to scan the dimly lit interior. It’s kind of a dive, which doesn’t come as a great shock. She’s a little surprised by all the boxing memorabilia arranged around the place and… is that a wall of dollar bills? Apparently so. This place seems… quirky. Which is actually a point in its favour. It’s not that she doesn’t like swanky, up-market wine bars on occasion, but she’s always had a fondness for the older, stranger, slightly down-at-heel places. Jimmy’s Corner reminds her of some of the places she used to hang out when she was a student. (Which is way too long ago for her liking, and what is she doing contemplating hooking up with someone who’s probably barely out of college anyway?)

Luckily, she’s dressed appropriately for the place, feeling oddly relieved to be able to ditch her suit and heels for jeans and ballet flats. She did wonder if she should have dressed up a little, but fuck it. It’s not like this is an *actual* date, and she’ll be shocked beyond belief if Nadia even *owns* anything resembling dressing up clothes. (Okay, it’s probably unfair of her to stereotype like that, but it’s not like she has much to go on.) Anyway, her dark blue jeans and pale pink baby doll tee aren’t exactly grunge central, especially when accessorised with chunky jewellery and just a touch of make-up.

All in all, she looks damn good just as she is. 

She doesn’t spot Nadia right away, but there are lots of little nooks and crannies where she might be lurking. Christine shrugs inwardly and heads for the bar, figuring that while she’s here, she might as well get a drink at least.

She’s pleasantly surprised by the selection of drinks on offer. They seem to have an extensive collection of wines and spirits, and beers from all over the world, and the prices… Her eyebrows shoot up. Are they for real? Three dollars for a beer? This close to Times Square? How has she never heard of this place before? She is definitely coming back here again. Considering the many, many options, she decides to go for a beer; maybe one of the European imports. In a sudden fit of nostalgia, she orders something she used to drink with her college friends, lingering at the bar to give herself a few minutes to savour the rich taste before tracking down Nadia.

Better. Much better.

Suitably calmed and fortified, she makes a slow circuit of the pub, searching through the crowd until she finds Nadia in one of the booths to the back. (She’s actually a little impressed that she’s actually managed to commandeer a booth all to herself, especially given how rammed this place is. Still, Christine isn’t complaining.) She’s stretched out along the length of one of the benches, laptop resting on her slightly bent knees. Christine wonders idly if she’s working on her article. (She wonders if she’ll be able to talk Nadia into letting her have a sneak peek.)

(And an advance look at the article.)

“Most people come to pubs to drink, not to write,” she says lightly, as she sits across from Nadia, setting her glass down on the table’s scarred wooden surface.

Nadia shrugs (naturally), looking up with her apparently characteristic smirk.

“I’m multitasking,” she says dryly, nodding at the bottle next to her elbow. It looks like she’s also gone for a European import, although not the same one that Christine’s drinking.

Nadia closes her laptop and stashing it in her bag, swivelling around on the bench so that she’s facing Christine. She’s changed clothes since earlier; skinny black jeans and a tight dark-green vest replacing the cargo pants and white blouse. (There’s a logo of some kind on the vest, but the dim lighting means she can’t really tell what it is unless she gets close and stares. Which… no. Not at this point in the evening, anyway.) The boots are still the same.

“You got changed,” Christine says, then immediately berates herself for opening with something so mundane.

“So did you,” returns Nadia, making her feel a little better about stating the obvious. Nadia makes something of a production over looking Christine up and down, quirking an eyebrow as she meets her eyes. “You look good out of uniform.”

“Thanks,” Christine says. She feels like she should return the compliment, but finds herself suddenly feeling awkward; unsure what to say. And then the moment is past.

“Wasn’t sure you’d come,” says Nadia, picking at the already ragged label on her bottle of beer. (Maybe she’s feeling awkward, too.)

“Neither was I,” she says, managing a smile that’s more or less genuine. More or less. “But here I am.”

“Here you are,” Nadia echoes, her eyes dark and fathomless.

She picks at the label some more, then wraps her fingers around the bottle and lifts it to her lips, taking a healthy swig. Christine finds herself unaccountably fascinated by the movement of Natasha’s throat as she swallows.

“Were you waiting here long?” she asks, because apparently she’s not quite done with inanities this evening, and *god* she’s realising just how much she hates making small talk. Especially when she’s the one initiating it.

“Never said I was waiting for you,” Nadia says, and that insolent little smirk of hers just makes Christine want to grab her and…

And suddenly she’s not feeling awkward anymore, because she *knows* this game and knows it well. It’s one of her favourites.

“Guess you didn’t,” she says, her voice low and amused. “I do hope I’m not interrupting anything…” She flicks her gaze over Nadia, just the right mix of heat and haughty dismissal. “Important.”

Nadia leans forward in her seat, her vest pulling down a little to expose more of her cleavage. Christine almost resists the lodestone pull of her bared skin, then shrugs inwardly and just goes with it. She’s pretty sure from the glint in Nadia’s eyes that she just did that on purpose, so surely it would be rude *not* to look. It’s not like she’s staring with her tongue hanging out or anything. (Although she does look for maybe just a little longer than she’s intending.)

“What if you are?” Nadia asks, a glint of something like challenge in her eyes.

“Well,” Christine murmurs, shrugging out of her jacket. “I suppose…” Reaching across the table that suddenly seems smaller, somehow, like the distance between them has shrunk, she rests her fingertips lightly, on Nadia’s hand, tracing slow, lazy circles on her skin. “I’d just have to make it up to you somehow.”

“And how would you do that?” Nadia says, sounding distinctly… interested.

Christine shrugs, amused when Nadia’s eyes follow the movement, lingering a little as her T-shirt stretches tight across her chest. She supposes turnabout is fair play. (And, okay, maybe she was putting on a little bit of a show.)

“I have a few suggestions,” she says airily. Acting on a hunch, she runs her fingernails lightly along the inside of Nadia’s forearm, gratified at the way Nadia’s breath catches a little in her throat. She hesitates only a moment, weighing the wisdom of her next words, before deciding on full steam ahead and damn the consequences. “Want to get out of here?”

(Why change the habit of a lifetime?)

Nadia’s smirk stretches into a slow, dark smile, and it’s Christine’s turn to startle as Nadia’s foot hooks around her ankle and starts to slide up the inside of her calf. (Did she take off a boot? More to the point, did she take off a boot without even using her hands? That’s… quite an impressive trick right there.)

“Why, are you feeling shy?” she asks slyly.

Christine raises her eyebrows, striving for some semblance of composure despite the way her face flushes and her pulse quickens.

“I didn’t know you were an exhibitionist,” she says, stalling while she tries to figure out what to do.

“You don’t really know me at all,” Nadia points out.

“Maybe I’d like to.” Christine wasn’t intending to say that, but she doesn’t feel any particular desire to take the words back. She finds Nadia equal parts intriguing and infuriating, and she really would like to get to know her better.

And not just in the biblical sense.

Although at the moment, getting to know het in the biblical sense is uppermost in her thoughts. Well, not thoughts precisely…

Nadia leans further forward, until Christine can feel her breath on her lips. Under the table, her foot continues to travel up Christine’s leg until it’s pressing lightly against her thigh. Christine is impressed to realise just how flexible Nadia must be. She looks forward to finding out just how flexible.

“So, go on then.” Nadia practically breathes the words, so Christine has to strain her ears in order to hear. Her eyes glint wickedly. “Unless you’re too timid…”

That’s the final straw.

Christine surges forward and kisses Nadia, ignoring the little voice in the back of her mind that’s yammering away, telling her that she’s in public, that people could see them, that there’s even a chance that someone might recognise her. All that runs through her head in an instant before she shoves it roughly aside. She’s *tired* of worrying what other people think, tired of second-guessing herself for fear of what other people might think of her. That’s *really* not who she is.

Besides, she’s been wanting to do this all day.

The kiss is rough, sloppy, her mouth pressing hard against Nadia’s, boldly slipping her tongue between Nadia’s lips when they part. Nadia kisses her back just as hard, just as hot, her lips brazen and demanding. Christine slides one hand up Nadia’s back, twines the fingers of the others in her hair. She loses her balance a little and slips, tugging on Nadia’s hair a little harder than intended, but the way the other woman shivers and moans a little, deep in her throat, makes the apology die unspoken. Nadia kisses her back with renewed enthusiasm, biting at her lower lip so that it’s Christine’s turn to shiver. Nadia’s strong — surprisingly strong — fingers dig into her hips, jerking her forward so that she almost falls. She pulls back a little as she steadies herself, thoroughly pleased — and thoroughly turned on — at the small, disappointed noise Nadia makes when she breaks contact.

“Want to get out of here?” Christine repeats, looking into eyes with pupils blown wide; wide as hers undoubtedly are right now.

Nadia laughs a little breathlessly. “Thought you’d never ask.”

Despite her breathlessness, flushed cheeks and desire, no, need-filled eyes, her lips still twist in that utterly *infuriating* little smirk. Christine resolves that she’s going to wipe that expression off her face if it’s the last thing she ever does. And even if she doesn’t manage it…

Well.

It’s certainly going to be fun trying.

* * * * *

**Present: Natasha**

It takes Nadia a couple of attempts — okay, several — to unlock the door to her crappy little apartment. ((SHIELD’s crappy little apartment, actually — one of several places they maintain for use as safe houses, addresses for cover identities, or whatever else might be needed.)) Not because she’s drunk — she’s only had a couple of beers; she’s not that much of a lightweight — but because the lock’s just as crappy as the rest of it, and has a tendency to stick. If she’s honest, she might admit that there’s also another contributing factor — Chrissie. The woman seems to be doing her level best to distract her right now and, well, she’s not too proud to admit that it’s kinda working.

“You realise this will be much easier if you stop doing that for a moment,” she murmurs, her breath hissing sharply through her teeth as the kiss Chrissie was pressing to the skin of her neck turns without warning into a not entirely gentle bite.

“Don’t you like what I’m doing?” Chrissie asks, completely failing at sounding innocent.

“That’s kinda the problem.”

Chrissie chuckles softly, her breath hot on Nadia’s neck, and then travelling upwards to her ear as she shifts to whisper into it.

“It’s not my fault you seem to have problems inserting a key into a lock.” She kisses Nadia’s earlobe, then nips at it lightly, making Nadia shiver. “I really hope this doesn’t bode ill for the rest of the evening’s entertainment.”

Nadia doesn’t reply to that little comment, but she promises herself that she’s going to make Chrissie eat those words before the night is over. Maybe even out here in the hallway if she can’t get this damn door open! Just as she thinks that, the lock *finally* decides to co-operate. Turning in Chrissie’s loose embrace, she grabs her by the hips and bodily swings her over the threshold, pushing her up against the wall so hard that a picture rattles on its hook.

(Romanoff doesn’t like having the open door at her back like this, but needs must.)

“Welcome to my humble abode,” she murmurs, staring up into Chrissie’s suddenly wide eyes with an expression that she really hopes is at least half as wicked as it feels. Light spilling in from the hallway makes Chrissie’s eyes shine, turns her hair into a halo of spun gold, highlights the blush of colour in her cheeks.

She’s beautiful.

((She’s beautiful.))

Chrissie starts to say something, but Nadia doesn’t let her get the words out. She claims Chrissie’s mouth with her own, finding it open and wanting. Their teeth clack together, but that doesn’t matter; makes it better, almost, making her realise just how eager they are for each other. Chrissie kisses back, kisses aggressively, turning this into a battle of lips and tongues and teeth, sending a thrill of excitement arcing all the way through Nadia’s body. She’s not used to being met and matched like this.

((Tasha kind of is, but that’s neither here nor there. Anyway, it’s not the same. It’s not nearly the same.))

It really is a turn-on.

Chrissie clutches at her back, fingers digging in just hard enough for Nadia to feel the pressure of them through her jacket, making her breath catch in her throat and just when did it get so hot in here? She runs her own hands up Chrissie’s sides, brushing the curves of her breasts. It’s just delicious the way Chrissie shivers against her; almost as delicious is the sharp, disappointed noise she makes when Nadia’s hands don’t linger there, despite the not inconsiderable temptation. The sound is quickly cut off, but not before Nadia hears it; before she feels it through her lips. She pulls back a little, smirking at Chrissie.

“Patience, Ms Everhart,” she drawls. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.” Sliding her fingers up over Chrissie’s shoulders, she wriggles them beneath her jacket, pushing it slowly down.

Chrissie laughs. She sounds a little breathless.

“First you leap on me, then you talk about patience. You, Ms Vance, are a woman of contradictions.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Nadia murmurs, struggling a little to work the jacket down Chrissie’s arms.

“It would probably be easier to take that off if you weren’t pinning me to the wall,” Chrissie points out, sounding entirely far too amused about it for Nadia’s taste.

“Oh, but where’s the fun in that?” she says.

Abandoning the jacket for the moment, she presses her body against Chrissie’s so that there’s not enough space between them to slide a piece of paper, her breath hissing through her teeth as their breasts press together.

“Ow,” says Christine.

Nadia freezes.

“You okay?” she says.

“Cracked my head on the wall,” Chrissie explains ruefully. “You might want to give me some warning next time you’re planning on slamming me into a vertical surface. That way I can brace for impact.”

Nadia leans in to whisper in Chrissie’s ear, letting her lips brush her earlobe.

“Would you rather I threw you onto a horizontal surface to have my way with you?”

Chrissie starts a little, although it’s not clear whether it’s at the suggestion, or at the feel of Nadia’s lips on her skin. Either way, Nadia takes advantage of the opportunity to insinuate one of her legs between Christine’s, pressing right up against the heat of her. Chrissie moans a little at the contact, but makes a concerted effort to try to claw back some of her composure.

“Well you’re not getting my jacket off like this,” she says, sounding amused, although there’s a slightly ragged edge to her voice that makes Nadia start thinking that maybe patience is overrated. That maybe *patient* is absolutely the last thing on earth she wants to be right now.

“Maybe I’ve changed my mind,” she says, practically growling the words. She feels Chrissie stiffen against her, but is already continuing. “Maybe it’s not your jacket I want to get off right now.”

She nips lightly at Chrissie’s neck with her teeth and then kisses her again, shifting position slightly so she can wriggle one of her hands between their bodies. She tries to slip her fingers beneath the waistband of Chrissie’s jeans, but can’t quite manage it. Fortunately, she has very nimble fingers, and excellent co-ordination. Even distracted and working purely by touch, she makes short work of the fastenings, loosening them enough to…

Chrissie moans into her mouth, jerking against her as her fingers find skin, as she strokes the hot, wet flesh between Chrissie’s legs. The angle’s not great, and she doesn’t have as much manoeuvrability as she’d like, but there’s enough. It certainly seems to be working for Chrissie, judging by the way she shudders and gasps. Nadia lets her fingers roam a little, exploring the slick folds until she finds what she’s looking for, then settling into a quick and dirty rhythm.

She *was* figuring they’d probably make it to the bed before doing this, or at least the couch — maybe the rug? — but suddenly that feels like half a world away. Right now, Chrissie is the whole of her world, and all Nadia wants right now is to hear Chrissie moan again. No, to *make* her moan again; to shatter her composure and undo her utterly and completely. She needs that like she needs *air*.

But Chrissie’s trying to say something, so Nadia tilts her head back a little, releasing Chrissie’s mouth so she can speak.

“What is it?” Nadia asks, not caring about the way her voice sounds distinctly ragged around the edges. She really, *really* hopes Chrissie hasn’t changed her mind about this.

“The door,” Chrissie gasps.

Nadia frowns. “What about it?”

She’s greatly impressed at the glare Chrissie manages to muster. A lesser, less self-confident — less rebellious? — woman would probably find it intimidating. Nadia just finds it very, very hot.

“It’s *open*.” She hisses the words, half offended — like it’s a personal affront — and half scandalised.

“Oh.” Honestly, Nadia had forgotten that they’d never gotten around to closing it. (Romanoff hasn’t. She’s not capable of forgetting something like that, no matter what the distraction.) Her focus was a little too narrow to worry about trivialities like that. She still doesn’t care overmuch. She doesn’t know her neighbours well enough to worry about scandalising them. Anyway, no one else is around right now. It’s just the two of them. Just her and Chrissie. Although… “Do you want me to close it?” she offers, then lets a wicked grin spread over her face. “Of course, I’d have to stop what I’m doing right now…”

She presses her fingers in slightly to emphasise her point, gratified beyond measure when Chrissie tenses and gives another wonderful, breathy moan, following that with a series of broken, ragged sounds that might possibly be words.

“What was that?” Nadia asks, faux-politely. “I didn’t quite catch it. You know, for a journalist, you’re being awfully inarticulate right now…”

She’s really quite impressed at the glower Chrissie levels at her. Both that she has the ability to muster the expression when Nadia is working so hard at undoing her, and because it’s really rather magnificent.

“I *said*,” Chrissie growls. “Don’t you dare stop.”

“Oh?” Nadia stills the movement of her fingers, her smile widening at the noise Christine makes. It starts plaintive, but ends as a demand. “Are you sure?”

“I’m. *Sure.*” It sounds like Christine is grinding the words out through gritted teeth.

“So you don’t want me to go and close the door before we go any further?” Nadia flexes her fingers as she speaks, stroking once, twice, three times and then… pausing.

Chrissie groans, her own fingers clutching tightly at Nadia’s back, at the curve of her ass.

“I swear, you are the most *infuriating* woman,” she mutters. She draws in a sharp breath as Nadia flexes her fingers again, and then makes a ragged, wordless sound that seems to go right to Nadia’s core. “What, you want me to beg? Because that isn’t happening.”

“Mmmm,” Nadia muses, considering the possibilities. “No, not right now.” She winks at Chrissie, giving her a sly smile. “Maybe later.”

Her glower returning with a vengeance, Chrissie starts to speak, and that’s when Nadia starts moving her fingers once more, sliding easily back into the rhythm, her fingers gliding smoothly through the moist heat. Chrissie’s words are lost in the low groan that Nadia feels more than hears.

She wonders what it would take to make her scream.

For now, though, this is enough. Pressed up against Chrissie, feeling her every twitch and shiver, feeling — as well as hearing — her breaths come fast and hard. She loves the sounds Chrissie makes as Nadia drives her closer and closer to the edge, the way she catches her lower lip between her teeth, her eyes fluttering half-closed. Nadia’s own breathing quickens as she watches Chrissie’s face, thrilling in the knowledge that *she’s* doing this to her, that she’s the reason for this gasp, for that whole-body shudder.

It’s intoxicating.

Chrissie climaxes with a small, choked off cry, her whole body tensing for a long moment before she sags bonelessly against the wall, panting heavily. Her legs are trembling. Nadia allows herself a slow, pleased smile.

“Was that good for you?” she asks.

“Couldn’t you tell?” Chrissie says, her voice languid and satisfied.

Nadia shrugs deliberately, the action making her fingers — still nestled between Chrissie’s legs — move a little so that Chrissie cries out again, sounding almost surprised.

“Just making sure,” Nadia murmurs.

“No complaints here,” Chrissie drawls. A smile hovers around the corners of her lips, then freezes in place, becoming an expression of shocked realisation. With some asperity, she adds: “Aside from the fact that the damn door is still open.”

“You didn’t seem to mind too much a few minutes ago.”

“Yeah, well, I mind now.” She pauses, letting her hands fall away from Nadia’s back — and ass — and looks at her expectantly. Smoothing her expression into something as close to innocence as she can get right now — probably not very — Nadia looks back at her and says nothing. After a moment or two, Chrissie rolls her eyes. “You planning on letting me up anytime soon?” she asks dryly.

Nadia pretends to think about it.

“Haven’t decided yet,” she says airily, gently plying her fingers again. “Maybe I like this position just fine.”

“Nadia!” Chrissie chokes out.

“Chrissie,” Nadia murmurs.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake!”

“Pr-” Precisely was what she was going to say, but before Nadia can finish her snarky commentary on the applicability of that particular phrase Chrissie grabs her by the hips and pushes her backwards. Chrissie doesn’t have much leverage from her position — not the best one for this kind of manoeuvre, but she makes good use of what she has. (Romanoff would never be caught off guard by such a clumsy move, but Vance is a blogger, not a super-spy.) Nadia stumbles back a step or two, automatically relaxing her hand so her fingers don’t catch on somewhere sensitive.

Luckily, they seem to slide out easily enough.

“That could’ve been unfortunate for you,” she comments, carefully withdrawing her hand from between Chrissie’s legs. Chrissie just gives her a look as she quickly fastens her jeans and heads determinedly for the doorway. For one brief, disappointed moment, Nadia thinks she might actually be leaving, but all she does is close the door.

Firmly.

Which, since neither of them have turned on a light yet, leaves them both standing there in the dark. Nadia hears Chrissie moving; there’s a thud and a muffled curse.

“The light switch is to the right of the door,” she says helpfully. “Above the table you just walked into.”

“Thanks,” Chrissie mutters, and a moment later the overhead light comes on.

Nadia very carefully doesn’t say a word about not thinking before acting. Nor about walking into furniture. She does, however, make sure she’s wearing her smirkiest smirk when Chrissie turns around to face her. Chrissie scowls thunderously but then, abruptly, her lips quirk in a tiny, fierce smile.

“You thought I was leaving, didn’t you?” she asks brightly, laughter lurking just below her words.

Nadia shrugs.

“It might have been too much for you,” she says, still smirking. Eyes glinting angrily, Chrissie starts to say something in reply, only to break off mid-word when Nadia brings her good right hand to her lips and proceeds to lick her fingers clean. She makes sure to hold Chrissie’s gaze all the while. “Mmmm,” she says, the sound practically a purr. “You taste good.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Past: Natasha**

“How have you been sleeping?”

Natasha looks at the woman sitting across the table from her and gives a small, wry smile.

“Like a baby, Agent Hill.”

Maria gives a noncommittal, yet somehow faintly disbelieving “Hmmm,” glancing down to scribble something in her ever-present notebook. Natasha would lay pretty good odds that she’s simply doodling another one of her infamous sketches, rather than actually making notes. And the noncommittal-sound-followed-by-a-long-pause technique is just about the oldest trick in the book. Fortunately for Natasha, she’s never been afraid of silence. She’s perfectly capable of waiting Maria out, and allows herself a quiet moment of satisfaction when the other woman breaks first.

“Agent Hill?” she says, a little reproachfully. “Really, Natasha?”

Natasha shrugs, the movement a little stiffer than usual courtesy of her healing injuries.

“It would be inappropriate to call you by your first name while you’re evaluating me, Agent Hill,” she says sweetly, with only the tiniest hint of a bite to her tone. (Romanoff is concerned that she’s overdoing the resentment, but Natasha knows what’s expected of her.)

(Field agents are *supposed* to balk a little at post-mission psychological evaluations. Even though those evaluations are supposed to be for the agents’ own good. Natasha appreciates the intent behind them, but she has far too many idiosyncrasies to be truly comfortable with someone else trying to see inside her head. Luckily, she’s a mistress of showing people what they want to see.)

Maria rolls her eyes.

“Very well, *Agent Romanoff*,” she says, her thoughts on the matter loud and clear in her tone of voice. “If that’s the way you want it. As your assessing officer for this post-mission personal evaluation session, I would *greatly* appreciate it if you cut the bullshit and actually give me a straight answer.”

The ‘for once’ may be unspoken, but it’s very, very heavily implied.

“I have been answering,” Natasha points out, keeping her tone pleasant, although she knows her expression is starting to become a little fixed.

Maria leans back in her seat, pinning Natasha with a decidedly sceptical look. When Natasha says nothing further, Maria shakes her head and reaches for the file on the desk in front of her. Pulling it towards her, she opens it and slowly pages through the contents. (It never fails to amuse Natasha that, for an organisation that has access to technological advances well beyond what’s considered cutting edge for most civilians, SHIELD certainly does seem to like paper. There are reasons, of course — security, backwards compatibility, back-ups — but still. It’s a little humorous.) Natasha doesn’t bother looking. She doesn’t have to.

((Living through it was more than enough.))

“How long were you under cover?” Maria asks lazily, almost disinterestedly, but she’s watching Natasha closely through her lashes.

“Four weeks and five days,” she replies promptly. “As it no doubt says in the file.”

Maria doesn’t acknowledge the second part, continuing to turn the pages. Natasha’s not sure why she’s continuing with the charade. She’s barely even bothering to hide the fact that her attention is on Natasha, not on the paper in front of her. More psychological tricks, no doubt.

Natasha is quietly confident that she’s immune.

((Natalya stirs uneasily, fighting the need to explain; to justify herself. To insist once again that she’s fine, just fine, but she’d be so much better if they’d just let the subject lie. The mission is over. What’s the point of dredging it up again and again?))

“And how long were you held for?” Maria asks, still in that same casual, distant tone.

“Two weeks and three days.” Her voice is flatter than she intends, but that’s okay. Maria would be suspicious if she sounded too perky.

((It had felt like longer. Kept underground, perpetually sleep-deprived, subjected to seemingly endless tests and pokings and proddings… It had felt like an eternity.))

((It had felt almost like… home.))

“Must have been hard.”

Natasha shrugs again. “It was the mission. It was what it was. And we were aware going in that there would likely be an extended period of captivity with duress, so it wasn’t anything I wasn’t prepared for.”

(Anya’s whimper puts the lie to Natasha’s words but, fortunately, Maria isn’t privy to Natasha’s internal dissent. Anyway, she *was* prepared.)

(She just wasn’t nearly prepared enough.)

“Preparation is one thing, but you and I both know that it can count for jack and shit once you’re out in the field. Especially when you’re out there on your own.” Maria studies her for a few moments, her gaze assessing. Her voice, when she continues, is oddly… gentle? “And given your background, it’s perfectly understandable if the experience has stirred up a few bad memories.”

((Red room. It was like the Red Room back at the beginning of it all. With the tests and the needles and the knives and the pain and the-))

(Natasha doesn’t flinch, doesn’t catch her breath, doesn’t do anything that would give her away as she ruthlessly shoves Natalya back down into her box and slams the lid. Her breakdown isn’t helping anyone, least of all her. Better to keep her buried. Her instincts can be useful sometimes, but there’s a reason Natasha tends not to let her out if she can help it.)

Natasha doesn’t look away from Maria’s cool yet compassionate gaze. 

((The Black Widow mutters that she’ll tear those eyes right out of her head if she doesn’t stop *looking* at her like that.))

(Of all of Natasha’s skins, she’s the one who has the strongest reaction to anything that could even remotely smack of pity.)

She takes her time before answering, letting the silence gather and pool around them, but Maria seems content to wait.

Sighing softly, she musters a tiny, rueful smile.

“My sleep has been a little… disturbed… since I got back,” she offers. It’s a concession, but one she was prepared to make before she came in here.

(The key to keeping your secrets hidden isn’t necessarily to reveal nothing at all, or even to simply lie outright. Rather, by giving up carefully chosen titbits in a controlled manner, you can reveal next to nothing while making them think they’ve managed to pry every single one of your deepest, darkest secrets out of you. It’s all about shaping the narrative.)

Maria nods. Closing the file again, she jots something in her notebook.

“Bad dreams?” she asks.

“Not that I remember. I just wake up in the night sometimes, and find it difficult to get back to sleep.”

(As far as anyone at SHIELD is concerned, Natasha Romanoff doesn’t remember her dreams. That doesn’t mean they don’t ask her about them, but they never really expect answers. It’s not that unusual, after all. Some people just don’t remember their dreams; some quirk of their biology or psychology or both. And Natasha has no intention whatsoever of letting them know that she’s not one of those people.)

(She doesn’t remember every single one of her dreams, but she remembers enough to know that she’s never going to talk about them with anyone.)

“Have you suffered from insomnia before?”

Natasha rolls her eyes.

“You know I have. And, to answer your next question: no, I’m not taking anything for it. And no, I don’t intend to. It’ll pass soon enough by itself, anyway. It always does.”

She’s half-expecting another lecture about taking these sessions seriously, but Maria merely nods and makes some more notes.

“Alright,” she says mildly. “Moving on…”

The rest of the session passes normally enough. Maria undoubtedly thinks it’s like pulling teeth, but then they both know it could be so much worse. This could be one of Barton’s sessions.

(Some people are passive aggressive during their evaluations. Barton is just aggressive-aggressive. Natasha’s warned him time and time again that such an approach isn’t necessarily in his best interest. He agrees quite readily, but then just continues in exactly the same fashion.)

((Clint really can be quite frustratingly stubborn sometimes, something he persists in taking as a compliment whenever she points it out. It can be rather vexing.))

Eventually, the whole painful, pointless exercise comes to an end, signalled by Maria closing her notebook and laying her pen down neatly on top of it. She regards Natasha thoughtfully for a few moments. Natasha arches an eyebrow at the scrutiny, but otherwise does nothing.

“You know I could recommend that you undergo a full psychiatric evaluation,” she says quietly; a statement, not a question. “Scheduled therapy sessions; the full works.”

“Advising such a course is certainly within your remit,” Natasha says cautiously. She strongly doubts that Maria is going to do any such thing, but it’s still a relief when she sighs and says:

“I’m not going to do that. Not because I don’t think you need it, but because I don’t think it’ll help. Not right now, anyway.” She narrows her eyes. “But I will be watching you carefully Agent Romanoff; don’t you doubt it.”

“I never do, Agent Hill,” Natasha says, allowing herself the luxury of amusement. So. She’s passed the evaluation. Just as she always does. She doesn’t get to her feet just yet, though, aware that Maria has something more to say.

“Alright, now the formal part’s out of the way…” Maria relaxes her pin-perfect posture, allowing herself to slump a little — but only a little — in her chair. “Are you doing okay, Natasha?”

Natasha shrugs, mirroring Maria by also adopting a more relaxed pose.

“I think so,” she says, aware that anything less than utter certainty might well be used against her in the future, but also aware that such certainty might be considered suspicious in its own right.

“Does *Barton* think you’re doing okay?”

“I think so,” Natasha says again, tilting her head in the way of a duellist acknowledging a hit. She smiles in a way that’s little more than a quick flash of teeth.

(It’s a logical question for Maria to ask, based on what she thinks she knows about Barton and Natasha’s relationship. It doesn’t mean that she really knows what she’s asking. It doesn’t mean she knows the truth about the complex tangle of debts and obligations — but not sentiment; never that — binding Barton and Natasha/Clint and Tasha together.)

(It doesn’t mean that she’s a threat.)

“Alright then,” says Maria. Her relaxation seems genuine now, rather than merely a show for Natasha’s benefit. (Natasha supposes that means she’s finally satisfied with whatever she read into Natasha’s answers.) She smiles suddenly. “So, do you fancy celebrating the fact that you’ve finally been released from the clutches of medical?”

((Anya whimpers.))

((Natalya, down in her box, flinches at the thought of medical and their endless tests, at the way it tangles with other memories. Other tests. Other needles. Other fluids pumped into or drawn out of her until she fears that her veins would collapse under the onslaught.))

((And then there was the rest of it.))

(Natasha can’t help feeling that Maria really could have chosen her words better. It doesn’t bother her, of course. It doesn’t matter or anything. It’s just an observation.)

“I’ve got plans tonight, I’m afraid,” Natasha says, and it’s more of a struggle than it should be to sound genuinely regretful.

It isn’t that she doesn’t like Maria, because she does. In fact, she counts the woman as one of her few friends. And hitting the bars with her is always fun. But this evaluation has left her feeling reluctant to socialise with ‘Agent Hill’ right now. There’s always going to be a part of her that thinks of Maria as a handler, first and foremost. (None of her skins trust handlers. She’s learned better.) Normally it isn’t a problem, but right now, on top of everything…

She could cope, of course. It’s what she does. But, fortunately, she really does have plans.

“Tomorrow, then?” Maria asks. “I’ve found a great little bar.”

“Let me guess,” Natasha says, grinning. “It serves those girly cocktails you like.”

“I can neither confirm nor deny that allegation,” Maria proclaims loftily, although she spoils the effect somewhat when she half-smiles and adds: “Anyway, it’s not like you can talk. I know you like them too.”

“You’ll never prove a thing,” Natasha tells her. “But I suppose I could keep you company.”

“Great. I’ll text when I know what time I’ll be able to break away from here.” She stands up, and Natasha follows suit. “I’m betting I’ll definitely be in need of a drink or three.”

Natasha laughs.

“I’ll give you fair warning: if you’re not done with your paperwork or meetings or whatever by what I consider to be a reasonable hour, I will be conducting an extraction operation. Codenamed ‘The Manhattan Project’.”

Maria groans, covering her face with her hands.

“You’ve been spending way too much time with Barton,” she says, her voice a little muffled. She lets her hands fall away, giving Natasha a sly little smile. “Speaking of which, you’d probably better get going before he barges in here looking for you.”

“He wouldn’t barge in here,” Natasha protests, amused.

“No, you’re right. What was I thinking? He’d come in through the ceiling.”

They laugh together.

((Tasha broadcasts silent disapproval. Not that she has a problem with laughing at Clint behind his back — she says much worse to his face, after all. She just feels uneasy about doing so with Hill. Tasha, more than any of the other skins, *really* doesn’t trust handlers. And she sure as shit doesn’t trust Hill with Clint. Nothing so asinine as jealousy — she just doesn’t like the way the handler’s field-readiness assessments can veer a little too close to destruction-testing. Not with Natasha, of course; Natasha has the insurance of Hill’s friendship. Although, if Hill ever had reason to suspect she was compromised, their friendship wouldn’t save her. But Clint *always* seems to find his way onto Hill’s shit list. It’s a particular talent of his. And Tasha knows he’s not nearly as unbreakable as he likes to pretend.))

((But then, who is?))

* * * * *

**Present: Natasha**

Chrissie swallows hard, and then, abruptly, flashes Nadia a brilliant smile.

“You know, you’re being very remiss in your duties as host.”

Nadia blinks, caught off-guard a little by both the smile and the statement.

“I just gave you an orgasm,” she points out, she feels not unreasonably.

“But you haven’t offered me refreshments, or even let me sit down,” Christine retorts.

Nadia senses that there’s a trap in this, somehow, but she’s not sure what. She briefly considers asking if Chrissie’s getting cold feet, but one look at the wickedness glinting in Chrissie’s eyes and the question dies unspoken. She’ll play along for now, she decides.

Besides, if she doesn’t like where this ends up, she can always bend Chrissie over and fuck her senseless.

“Okay,” she says slowly. “Living room’s this way…” She starts to lead Chrissie the few steps down the hallway, only to find herself halted by Chrissie sidling up to her and kissing the back of her neck.

There are definitely worse ways to be stopped in your tracks.

“Aren’t you forgetting something?” Chrissie murmurs against her skin.

“A- am I?” Nadia curses the way her voice quavers as Chrissie’s teeth find that sensitive little spot that makes her skin turn to gooseflesh.

(Romanoff is deeply unhappy about the vulnerability of this position. She doesn’t think Everhart’s a threat, but that doesn’t mean she likes being this exposed. And she knows it’s only going to be worse when Everhart decides she wants to reciprocate her recent attentions.)

(Still, as she keeps telling herself, needs must.)

((Natasha understands that her ability to be vulnerable is one of her greatest assets as an agent. It’s why she succeeds again and again in her missions, convincing targets that she isn’t a threat. That she’s in their power. Some people are never more confident than when they believe they have someone else at their mercy. And such people rarely, if ever, expect that she would willingly make herself vulnerable. To make herself weak. For these people, strength, and the appearance of strength, is everything. But Natasha has learned to make a strength of weakness.))

((Part of her even finds the feeling exhilarating; finds freedom in surrender.))

((Another part of her snaps and snarls at any attempt to chain her. Even if those chains are of her own making. Even if they’re nothing more than smoke and mirrors.))

((So many different parts of her; so many different skins. Sometimes she wonders — if she stripped them all away, all these false-but-not-false faces, would there be anything left? Or is she just some hollow, empty thing? A matryoshka doll with nothing at her core.))

((Anyway, it doesn’t matter. None of this matters right now.))

(Only the mission is important.)

“Yes,” Chrissie whispers, in between the kisses and bites she presses into Nadia’s sensitive flesh. She wraps her left arm around Nadia’s middle, her hand gliding up over her belly to lightly cup her breast. It takes Nadia a moment to remember that she asked Chrissie a question, which she hasn’t really answered.

“What am I forgetting?” she asks, pleased that this time she manages to keep her voice steady. More or less. If Chrissie thinks she’s going to be undone this easily, she’s got another think coming.

Also the way she’s circling her thumb around Nadia’s nipple without *quite* touching it has the potential to be really, really maddening.

“You didn’t take my jacket.”

Nadia laughs, the sound turning a little ragged around the edges as Chrissie’s thumb finally — *finally* — finds its target.

“I did try.”

“But you didn’t succeed.”

Nadia expects Chrissie to let her go, but instead she wraps her other hand around Nadia’s hip, pressing in a little with the tips of her long fingers. It’s not nearly hard enough to hurt, but it’s insistent enough to make Nadia aware of their presence; so near and yet so far from where she wants them to be. All the while, she continues her gentle yet relentless assault on her composure with lips, tongue and teeth, with the pad of her thumb stroking back and forth across Nadia’s almost painfully taut nipple.

“I can’t really do much like this!” she points out.

“No, I suppose not.” Chrissie chuckles against her skin, darkly amused, the sound of it almost as much of a turn on as the things she’s doing with her hand and mouth. “But there’s quite a bit I can do.” She releases Nadia’s hip, instead pressing the fingers of that hand between Nadia’s legs.

Nadia… does not yelp.

That is simply not one of the sounds she’s capable of making. Not ever. But the sudden stimulation, even through her jeans, does startle a noise out of her. And, okay, maybe it’s a little bit higher pitched than…

Alright, fine. She totally yelps.

Chrissie chuckles again, and Nadia can just *imagine* the look on her face, but then she’s remembering the way she looked when Nadia had her pinned against the wall and coming and her hands almost ache to touch her again. She starts to turn around, but Chrissie tightens her grip just a little, sending sparks of pleasure through her body. She stays exactly where she is.

“You already had your way with me,” Chrissie murmurs, nipping at the back of her neck and making her go a little weak at the knees. “Now it’s my turn to have my way with you.”

This is not the way things tend to go. Nadia might be laid back, but that doesn’t mean she’s *passive*. She’s used to taking charge in the bedroom. And sure, she enjoys a dominance tussle as much as the next girl — especially if she’s doing it right — but they invariably end up with her on top. She doesn’t just… lie back and do what she’s told. Well, stand there. Whatever. That’s not who she is.

At least… she didn’t think it was. But Chrissie taking charge like this is pretty much hot as hell, and she can’t deny there’s a part of her that’s kinda getting off on it. So, what the hell — she might as well just go with it.

At least for now.

(This wasn’t part of Vance’s initial profile, but then the file on Everhart also seems to have missed out a few pertinent details. Still, none of this is likely to be a problem as long as there are no other unexpected developments. Romanoff makes the relevant adjustments to her mental map of Vance’s reactions.)

((This isn’t the first time Natasha has been surprised by a skin’s reactions, and it’s unlikely to be the last. She doesn’t think it should be a problem, but it’s definitely something she’s planning on analysing in detail later.))

“You really think I’m just going to give in so easily?” she says, a little breathlessly. Shifting a little, she presses her back lightly against Chrissie’s breasts, pleased by the sudden in-drawing of breath that causes.

Because, yeah, she might be willing to see how this turns out, but that doesn’t mean she’s suddenly going to be all ‘yes, mistress,’ or anything like that. She has her pride, after all. But, in this position, Chrissie definitely has the upper hand. Well, hands. She plies those hands on Nadia’s body now, and it’s enough to make Nadia resent the fact that there’s clothing in the way.

“That’s half the fun, isn’t it?” Chrissie murmurs. She torments Nadia deliciously for a few more moments, then stills her fingers, speaking again in a falsely bright tone. “So, aren’t you going to ask to take my jacket?”

“Sure, whatever,” Nadia mumbles, panting a little, wondering if she’s actually going to get her rocks off just from this interminable teasing, or if she’s going to expire of frustration first. “Take your jacket?”

“Thank you,” Chrissie breathes. She releases Nadia and steps back a few paces. Nadia doesn’t know whether to curse or laugh.

She settles for giving Chrissie the most infuriating smirk she can muster, only a little disquieted at the way Chrissie’s smile widens, the overall effect somehow almost predatory. No, actually, there’s no ‘almost’ about it. She looks hungry, and Nadia has a pretty good idea that she’s the one on the menu.

But right now, she has a task to complete.

Sauntering towards Chrissie, she lets her gaze travel over the length of her, making no secret of her appreciation, staring a challenge into Chrissie’s eyes when she reaches them. Chrissie starts to take off her jacket, but Nadia reaches out and takes her hands, stopping her.

“Please, let me,” she says, letting her voice turn from faux-polite to actually firm as she adds: “I insist.”

“Oh. Well,” Chrissie murmurs, quirking an eyebrow at her. “If you insist…”

“I do,” Nadia says solemnly. Still holding Chrissie’s gaze, she lifts her hands to her lips one by one, kissing the knuckles. Acting on a sudden, mischievous impulse, she kisses her way along the length of one of Chrissie’s fingers, then takes the tip of it into her mouth, laving it with her tongue, before pulling it free with a wet pop.

“Funny way of taking off a jacket,” Chrissie says, breath hitching a little as Nadia moves on to the next finger.

“Getting to it,” Nadia mumbles.

“It’s rude to talk with your mouth full.”

She laughs. “What are you going to do? Spank me?”

Chrissie gives her a speculative look. Tilting her head, she looks Nadia up and down and smiles broadly. Nadia swallows hard at the look in her eyes.

(Yes, Romanoff muses. Everhart’s file was definitely missing a few points.)

Shaking off her paralysis, she resumes her attentions to Chrissie’s hands. Chrissie doesn’t seem to have any objection as she lavishes care on each finger in turn before finishing with a kiss on each palm and then releasing them. Taking a step forward, she runs her own hands up over Chrissie’s arms, across her shoulders and down her body to cup her breasts, brushing the pads of her thumbs over Chrissie’s obviously erect nipples.

“Pretty sure that’s also not how you take someone’s jacket off,” Chrissie says, panting a little.

“Pretty sure you’re not complaining,” Nadia murmurs. She pinches one of Chrissie’s nipples lightly between her thumb and forefinger, drawing a choked cry from Chrissie’s throat. Chrissie really does make the most wonderful sounds.

“Apparently not,” Chrissie manages, and Nadia is a little disappointed at how composed she sounds, despite the fact that she’s clearly enjoying Nadia’s ministrations. Clearly, she’s going to have to step up her game. She starts to slide her hands under Chrissie’s top, seeking the soft skin beneath, but Chrissie grasps her wrists, stopping her. “Jacket,” she says, making the word a command.

“Spoilsport,” Nadia breathes. She tells herself that she’s choosing to obey out of curiosity to see where this ends up, but the truth is that that single word, in that tone, might as well be aimed straight at her crotch. Maybe if she plays along, Chrissie will finish what she started.

When Chrissie releases her wrists, she slides the jacket off her shoulders and down her arms, just as *ordered*. But she does it slowly, deliberately drawing out the action, planting kisses on the revealed skin. The muscles of Chrissie’s upper arms, she’s pleased to note, are well-defined; the arms of someone who keeps in shape with something a little more strenuous than yoga.

(Romanoff knows that Chrissie attends regular self-defence classes at what — as far as she can tell — is a fairly respectable civilian training school. She also maintains her general fitness through jogging and non-combat aerobic activities when she has the time. Romanoff approves of this.)

She really appreciates that in a woman.

Eventually, she pulls the jacket free, reaching past Chrissie — she could step around her, but where’s the fun in that? — to hang it up on one of the pegs near the door.

“Good girl,” Chrissie murmurs, which possibly wasn’t her wisest move because now Nadia *really* wants to do something rebellious. So she deliberately opens her hand, letting the jacket fall. Not on the floor, because she’s not *that* inconsiderate, but on top of the little table Chrissie walked into earlier.

“Oops,” she drawls, not even bothering to suppress her smirk.

Chrissie frowns.

“Are you going to pick that up?” she says.

Nadia shrugs. “Maybe.”

But she does bend to reach for it, fully intending to actually hang it up this time now that her point has been made. The whole time, she’s aware of Chrissie’s eyes on her, the heat of her regard like a laser, so she keeps her movements slow and deliberate, aware that that her top is riding up and that her jeans are pulling tight across the curve of her ass. She hopes that Chrissie is enjoying the view. She starts to say something to that effect, but breaks off at the sudden sensation of Chrissie’s hands on her body; one pressing between her shoulder blades, stopping her from straightening up, and the other caressing her ass.

Apparently she’s happy to show her appreciation in a rather more tactile manner.

Nadia groans a little as Chrissie’s roaming hand slips between her legs, cursing the bad judgement that led her to put on jeans, rather than something, say, thinner. Chrissie presses in a little, making circling motions with her fingers, but it’s not enough; not nearly enough. Without consciously deciding to move, she finds herself pushing against that tantalising, too-light contact, seeking what she needs, only just stifling a wail of frustration when the touch is withdrawn completely. She wants to complain, to say something, although she’s not quite sure what she’s going to say that isn’t a plea for release. Pleading is *obviously* out of the question. She’s just drawing breath to ask if this is going to go on all night when Chrissie suddenly slaps her sharply on the ass, making her expel that breath in a loud yelp.

“Sorry!” Chrissie bursts out, seemingly perilously to yelping herself, pulling her other hand away from Nadia’s back. “Did I hurt you? I didn’t mean- I just thought… It seemed like you might want… Sorry.”

Nadia shakes her head to clear it as Chrissie babbles apologies, straightening on legs that seem a little shaky. A little surprised to find Chrissie’s jacket still clutched in one hand, she hangs it up and turns to face Chrissie, who’s looking at her like she’s expecting to get tossed out on her ass.

Nadia resists the urge to rub hers, knowing that would send entirely the wrong message.

“Stop,” she says firmly, stepping in to brush a gentle kiss against Chrissie’s lips. “You didn’t hurt me, okay?”

“You yelped,” Chrissie points out, looking like she doesn’t quite believe her.

“Yeah, well.” Nadia shrugs, feeling uncharacteristically self-conscious. “Let’s just say that wasn’t exactly a *bad* yelp, if you get my drift. Anyway, I don’t yelp.”

The look of panic starts to fade from Chrissie’s face, replaced by naked speculation.

“Does that mean you liked it?”

“I guess,” Nadia mutters, running her hand through her hair and trying not to think about the way her panties are probably soaked through with the evidence of how much she’s enjoying herself, or about the fact that she’s pretty sure she can still feel Chrissie’s handprint on her ass. “This isn’t exactly something I’m used to.” At the sudden, stricken look on Chrissie’s face, she hurries to add: “Not saying I’m opposed to trying new things, but I’d appreciate a little warning. That’s all.”

“This isn’t exactly old hat for me either,” Chrissie mutters, not quite meeting Nadia’s gaze. “I don’t usually… I’m not…” She shrugs, looking deeply uncomfortable. “I thought you were suggesting… I guess I misunderstood.”

Nadia shrugs again, then wraps her arms around Chrissie in a loose embrace.

“Like I said: not complaining, just surprised. Anyway, it’s not the first time my mouth has got me in trouble. I guess I’ll just have to be more careful what I say in future.”

“I wasn’t blaming *you*,” Chrissie says hastily. “I should have asked first.”

“Yeah, well,” Nadia says cheerfully. “No harm, no foul. Like I said: that wasn’t a *bad* yelp.”

That earns her another of those thoughtful looks from Chrissie.

“So, does that mean you want to continue?” she asks softly.

Nadia laughs a little, letting Chrissie see her raw need.

“You bet your ass I do,” she murmurs. “Do you?”

“More than anything,” Chrissie replies throatily, and kisses her. It starts slow at first, maybe even gentle, then deepens, becoming demanding, passionate, hungry. Their hands roam each other’s bodies, stroking and caressing. Chrissie smiles against Nadia’s lips as she squeezes her ass. “So…” she murmurs.

“So?” Nadia breathes.

“Are you going to keep me standing out in your hallway all night?”

“Are you saying you’re not having fun?” Nadia slides her hand underneath Chrissie’s T-shirt, fingers curving up over her belly to cup her breast through her thin bra. The undergarment feels like… lace? Suddenly she wants very much to see what Chrissie’s wearing under her clothes.

“Oh I am, very much,” Chrissie says. “But…” She kisses her way down Nadia’s neck until she reaches the neck of her vest, pulling it down with her teeth so she can plant more kisses on Nadia’s cleavage.

“But?” Nadia asks, curiosity just edging out her desire not to distract Chrissie’s mouth from its current activity, although it’s a very close thing.

“But,” Chrissie says, again. “Let’s be…” Her teeth lightly graze Nadia’s skin. “Civilised…” She drags her tongue over the tingling area. “About this.”

“Civilisation is overrated,” Nadia grumbles, letting out a quiet, disappointed sigh as Chrissie pulls away from her. She feels oddly bereft to lose the contact.

“Now,” Chrissie says, making no attempt to hide her amusement. “You were showing me to the living room?”

“Not like you can miss it,” Nadia says dryly. “It’s just straight ahead.” But she leads the way, pausing to shrug out of her own jacket and hang it up next to Chrissie’s before sashaying the few steps down the hallway. She hopes Chrissie appreciates the view. She starts to reach for the light switch, then changes her mind and opts instead to turn on the standing lamp. With a flourish befitting one of those scantily clad girls employed to point at things on game shows, she gestures at the battered, mismatched sofa and chairs. “Take a seat, any seat.”

“Thank you,” Chrissie says, but she doesn’t make any move to sit down, looking at Nadia expectantly.

Nadia rolls her eyes. ”Would you like something to eat or drink?” she asks, with exaggerated solicitousness.

Chrissie’s smile widens. “Oh, very much,” she says, her voice low and husky in a way that makes Nadia shiver with anticipation.

“What do you want?” Nadia asks, in a voice gone slightly breathless in response to the naked desire in her eyes.

Chrissie closes the short distance between them, leaning in to brush her lips over Nadia’s in a feather-light kiss. She trails a line of such gentle kisses along the line of her jaw until she reaches her ear.

“I want you,” she whispers.

She tugs at Nadia’s earlobe with her teeth, clearly having made note of the effect it had on her last time. A distant part of Nadia’s mind wonders if she’s checking to see whether the results are reproducible. The rest of her is too busy letting herself be distracted by the sensation. One of Chrissie’s hands finds her breast again while the other grips her by the hip and slowly, deliberately, walks Nadia backwards. She only goes a couple of steps before her calves hit something, but Chrissie doesn’t stop there. Gently but firmly, she presses Nadia down into something soft and cushioned; one of the armchairs.

“I thought you were the one who wanted to sit down,” Nadia says, gasping as Chrissie strokes her nipple once, twice, three times before releasing her hold on breast and hip to drop to her knees on the thick, brightly-coloured rug.

“I’m fine like this,” she almost whispers, and Nadia’s breath catches in her throat at the way Chrissie looks up at her. “Now…” Shifting her weight to sit back on her heels, she reaches for the zipper of Nadia’s right boot. “Let’s get these off for starters…”

Nadia muses that it doesn’t look like they’re making it all the way to the bed *quite* yet.

Somehow, though, she’s sure they’ll cope.


	7. Chapter 7

**Present: Christine**

It’s strange, Christine muses as she slides the zipper down and slowly eases the boot off over Nadia’s petite foot. Since entering this apartment, she’s had her hands on Nadia’s breasts, her ass and between her legs, and Nadia has more than returned the favour. They’ve kissed like it was going out of style. And yet, somehow, this feels like the most intimate thing she’s done all evening; kneeling in front of Nadia and taking off her boots.

Maybe it says something deep and meaningful about her, maybe it doesn’t. Right now, though, she has better things to do with her attention than to spend it on overthinking things.

Setting the boot to one side, she releases Nadia’s right foot and reaches for the left. Soon, the second boot joins the first. After a moment’s consideration, she goes for the socks next, taking the time to stroke the soles of Nadia’s feet as she reveals them. Nadia twitches a little at the first contact — ticklish, perhaps? Christine finds she likes the idea of that. Maybe she’ll even take advantage of it, later, but not right at the moment. She increases the pressure slightly; from the resulting shiver, Nadia doesn’t seem to be feeling ticklish any more.

Like her hands, Nadia’s feet also have callouses that suggest she doesn’t spend all of her time behind a keyboard. Maybe Christine will ask her about it, afterwards. (If she has the chance before she makes her usual quick and stealthy exit.) For now, though, she has other things on her mind. Running her hands up Nadia’s jeans-clad legs, she unfastens her belt, pulling it free of the loops and setting it down next to her boots.

“Taking your sweet time, aren’t you?” Nadia says.

Christine grins.

“Patience, Ms Vance,” she drawls, echoing Nadia’s earlier words to her. “I hear it’s a virtue.”

“Virtue is overrated,” Nadia retorts. Her fingers tighten on the arms of the chair as if she’s about to lever herself to her feet. Christine leans forward and places her palms high up on her thighs, stretching out her fingers into the heat between them. Nadia freezes.

“My turn, remember,” Christine says, chidingly. “And I think I’d like you to remain seated for the time being.”

“Fine,” Nadia huffs out. Despite the frustration in her voice, her lips are still curved in that damnable little smirk. That’s alright, though. Christine has a few ideas for how to wipe that smirk away. For starters…

Releasing Nadia’s thighs, she sets her fingers to work unfastening and unzipping her jeans. Nadia’s hands twitch once, but she manages to restrain her clear desire to act.

“Not used to sitting back and doing what you’re told, are you?” Christine murmurs. She laughs a little at the glower Nadia shoots her way.

“Not even close,” she grinds out.

“Well, you did say you weren’t averse to new experiences,” Christine says lightly. “Now lift your ass up a little.”

“This would be easier if you’d let me help,” Nadia grumbles, but she does do co-operate, letting Christine peel her jeans over her hips and slide them down her legs.

“It’s alright, I’ve got this.” The jeans join the boots and belt, after she takes the time to fold them up neatly. “Right,” she says, trailing her gaze over Nadia’s bared legs. “That’s better.” She reaches out to let her hands follow her gaze, then hesitates, frowning a little.

“What?” Nadia asks sharply. “Is there something wrong?”

“No, it’s just…” She leans forward to get a closer look. “How did you get that scar?”

“Which one?” Nadia asks wryly, and yes, now Christine knows what to look for, she’s startled to realise the one that caught her eye isn’t the only mark on Nadia’s otherwise smooth skin.

“This one,” she says softly, tracing the jagged line just above her knee.

“Cut it on a rock. Abseiling accident.” She shrugs easily. “Extreme sports are kind of my thing. Can’t take risks without getting a few bumps and bruises.” Putting her hand over Christine’s, she looks her directly in the eyes, her expression uncharacteristically serious. Christine can’t help thinking that this was not how she envisaged her losing her smirk. And, now that it’s not there, she finds herself missing it. “I’ve picked up a few scars along the way,” she says, quietly. “Is that going to be a deal-breaker?”

“What?” Christine blinks at her in surprise before gathering her wits together enough to shake her head. “No, of course not.” She twines her fingers with Nadia’s, moving their joined hands aside and bending to press her lips to the scar, kissing her way along the whole length of it. By the time she’s done, Nadia’s breathing is coming a little faster, and she’s looking down at Christine with the strangest expression on her face. Suddenly concerned, Christine pulls away again, rocking back on her heels. “Was that okay? Do you want me to stop?”

“No. No, that’s fine. I don’t- I’d like you to continue.” She swallows hard, and smiles suddenly, wryly. “No one’s ever done that before. It took me by surprise, a little.” Leaning back in the chair, she regards Christine through half-lidded eyes, a raw need in her eyes that almost takes her breath away. “It wasn’t an unpleasant surprise.”

“Oh,” Christine says, the word barely more than a soft exhalation. She continues in something more like a normal speaking voice, albeit a breathy, husky speaking voice. “Well, then. Where was I…?”

It’s a rhetorical question, of course. She resumes running her hands over Nadia’s pale, toned legs, bending to press featherlight kisses against every scar she can find, to trail her tongue over every little blemish and mark. When she reaches her thighs — fewer scars here, but that doesn’t mean she pays them any less attention — Nadia’s her hands are clenching and relaxing on the arms of the chair. By the time Christine’s fingers skim over her inner thighs, she’s shifting restlessly in her seat. And when Christine brushes her thumb over the damp material of her panties, she jerks and gasps.

“Someone’s eager,” Christine murmurs, circling, circling, circling with her thumb.

Nadia laughs breathlessly.

“With the way you’ve been teasing me, are you surprised?”

“I prefer to think of it as foreplay,” Christine says, smiling. “Calling it teasing would imply I wasn’t planning on satisfying you.”

“I was starting to wonder,” Nadia pants, crying out as Christine presses in a little with her fingers. She bites her lip.

“Don’t worry,” Christine assures her, amused. “I’m not quite that cruel.”

Pushing Nadia’s panties aside, she strokes the slick flesh directly, biting her own lip as Nadia flings her head back, her hair flying every which way. Christine waves for a moment, and then makes her decision, withdrawing her hand from Nadia’s panties. The sound that escapes Nadia’s lips sounds suspiciously like a whine, turning into a startled cry as Christine grabs her legs just below her knees and pulls, dragging her to the edge of the chair. Christine wobbles a little, almost overbalancing — she really should have braced herself better — but she manages to recover before Nadia can glare at her with a mix of frustration and bewilderment.

“What are you-“ she starts to say, but breaks off when Christine hooks her fingers in the waistband of her panties and drags them down. She was hoping to pull them all the way off in one smooth motion, but she’s kneeling a little too close for that and has to shuffle backwards a little awkwardly until she has enough room to manoeuvre. Luckily, Nadia seems to be a little too distracted to notice a little clumsiness on her part.

“It’s simple,” she says, tossing Nadia’s panties roughly in the direction of her jeans and repositioning herself so she’s exactly where she wants to be, kneeling between her legs. “I never said I was going to satisfy you with my *fingers*.”

Bracing her hands on Nadia’s thighs, she leans forward and kisses her, moaning a little as the scent of Nadia’s arousal fills her nostrils; as the taste of it fills her mouth. She trails her tongue over the folds and whorls of Nadia’s labia, taking her time, drawing this out. From the way Nadia’s thighs are trembling around her, she doesn’t think it’s going to take much to tip her over the edge, and she wants to draw this out. So she uses slow, delicate flicks of her tongue, pausing occasionally to just lay gentle kisses, or even just take a deep breath and blow.

“Damn you, Chrissie,” Nadia chokes out, after the third time she starts to build up a rhythm only to step it down again. “Are you trying to kill me?”

Before she answers, Christine, dips her tongue a little way inside Nadia, curling and flexing it before withdrawing and licking all the way up to Nadia’s clitoris.

“Do you want me to stop?” she asks, aiming for innocent and missing by a mile. “Because I could just…” She flicks Nadia’s clitoris with her tongue, once, and then starts to lift her head.

“No!” Nadia growls. “I don’t want you to fucking stop! The absolute last thing in the world I want you to do right now is stop.”

Christine laughs softly and flicks her tongue over Nadia’s clitoris again. Nadia groans and twitches, bucking her hips a little in search of the release she obviously craves.

“So you want me to continue, then?” she asks, flicking her tongue again.

“Yes!” Nadia says.

“Yes, what?” Christine says, and she never realised she was even capable of sounding so… wicked.

Nadia doesn’t answer right away. In fact, she takes long enough about it that Christine turns her head and lightly nips at the skin of her inner thigh. It’s not nearly hard enough to hurt, but Nadia jerks violently and gives a sharp, high-pitched cry, tightening her legs around Christine so that for a brief moment she almost fears that she’s going to be crushed to death.

“Nadia?” she says, concerned. “Are you al-“

“Please!” she cries out, her voice ragged and raw… with need?

More than anything, Christine wants to fulfil that need, but something stops her. There was something about that cry…

“You want me to continue?” she asks cautiously. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

“That wasn’t a bad cry!” Nadia all-but yells. “Just like before. I was just surprised. *Please* continue.” A note of humour enters her voice as she adds: “If you stop now, I’m going to absolutely fucking eviscerate you in my interview write-up.”

It’s the humour, more than anything else, that convinces Christine that Nadia’s actually okay. She smiles.

“Well, when you ask so nicely…” she murmurs.

She starts plying her tongue in earnest.

* * * * *

**Present: Natasha**

(Something’s wrong. Romanoff can feel Nadia’s skin starting to break apart and unravel around her and she doesn’t have the first idea why. That *never* happens; it’s not supposed to happen. She doesn’t know what’s wrong.)

((At first, everything seems to be going optimally. Christine’s curiosity is piqued by the scars, as Natasha predicted it would be. She thinks it highly likely that her curiosity will be enough to keep her around for a while afterwards, giving Natasha the chance to pump her for information. Assuming the sex goes well — and all evidence so far suggests that it’s going very well indeed — then she should be relaxed and off her guard afterwards, making Natasha’s mission that much easier. So far, so good. But then Christine bites her and…))

((…metal bites deep into the meat of her thigh, and she can’t help wondering what kind of sick bastard performs a muscle bore without anaesthetic. Ordinarily she’d stifle the scream that bubbles up in the back of her throat, but her skin hasn’t had the interrogation resistance training that she’s been — subjected to — given. So she lets the harsh, ragged sound force its way out between her clenched teeth and…))

Anya opens her eyes, disoriented, not sure where she is or why she’s half-naked in an armchair when just a moment ago she was strapped to an operating table and screaming. She doesn’t recognise the person kneeling between her thighs, but…

…all Natalya’s instincts are screaming ‘danger, enemy’, so she starts to tense in preparation for a neck snap and…

Romanoff steps in because Natasha *isn’t*. Natasha is frozen in some kind of mental white-out, so Romanoff locks her thighs before Natalya can do something that will turn this little glitch into a complete clusterfuck, except…

…Anya shoves her way to the surface again, and she doesn’t know what’s going on, or who grabbed her, but she’s just a common or garden thief and she wants no part of any of this.

“Please,” she calls out, hoping that if she can just *talk* to someone, she can straighten this out; make them realise that they’ve got the wrong girl…

…Natasha shakes off her paralysis and gags Anya, shoving her and Natalya down so deep they shouldn’t be able to surface until and unless she deliberately calls them forth — which will be right around the twelfth of never — weaving Nadia’s skin back together again and wrapping her around all of them…

((…Then fading back to her usual position during a mission, one layer below Romanoff.))

(Everything seems back to normal once more, but Romanoff remains alert, keeping a careful eye out for any further slips. It troubles her greatly that this one happened at all, not least because she doesn’t fully understand the reasons for it.)

Nadia isn’t too proud to admit to feeling a little panic when Chrissie asks her if she wants to continue. As if that teensy little nibble could possibly have hurt her! No, it was quite the opposite.

“That wasn’t a bad cry!” she says swiftly, willing Chrissie to believe her. “Just like before. I was just surprised. *Please* continue.” Chrissie still shows no sign of getting back to it, so she searches her mind for some other way to convince her. “If you stop now, I’m going to eviscerate you in my interview write-up.”

Glancing down, she sees Chrissie smile. That’s good, isn’t it? Surely that means she *isn’t* going to leave Nadia high and dry here?

Is she?

But then Chrissie murmurs: “Well, since you ask so nicely…”

Nadia *would* give a relieved sigh, but she’s too busy trembling and gasping and clenching her hands into fists, because oh holy *fuck* Chrissie is skilled with that tongue of hers. Nadia feels the pressure mount within her as Chrissie plies her mouth between her legs, hitting — and, this time, *keeping* — the perfect rhythm, and all that teasing, all that build-up, finally, *finally* reaches a crescendo. Arching her spine, Nadia flings her head back and damn near *howls* as the orgasm crashes through her like a tidal wave.

When the wave finally recedes, she slumps in the chair, glad of its support as she pants heavily, her heart heartbeat only slowly returning to something approaching normal.

“Wow,” she breathes.

“Worth the wait?” Chrissie asks, looking *remarkably* pleased with herself.

“Damn straight,” Nadia agrees, figuring that, after a performance like that, the woman is entitled to be a little pleased with herself.

“Glad you approve.”

“Oh, I most definitely do,” she murmurs.

Chrissie gets to her feet, raising an eyebrow as she looks down at Nadia.

“So, do you want to rest there for a little while you recover, or…”

Okay, that’s going *too* far. Nadia takes a deep breath and surges to her feet — she’s a little wobbly, but she manages to both get up and stay standing, which is the important thing — and wraps herself around Chrissie, kissing her within an inch of her life, tasting herself on the other woman’s lips. Chrissie kisses her back just as enthusiastically, and Nadia takes advantage of her distraction to undo her jeans again, shoving them roughly down her legs.

“I’m still wearing my shoes,” Chrissie protests half-heartedly, laughing a little, but she makes no effort to stop her when she lifts up Chrissie’s T-shirt, even raising her arms helpfully as Nadia breaks off the kiss and pull the garment up her body. “Hey!” she says, when Nadia only pulls it part-way off, leaving her arms trapped above her head. “What are you doing?”

“My turn again,” Nadia says airily. “Thought I’d better make sure you don’t cheat.” She hesitates, then a little more seriously, asks: “If this is okay?”

Chrissie’s silent for a moment, but then she nods.

“It’s alright,” she says.

“Well, just let me know if you feel uncomfortable, or if you want to stop,” Nadia says.

“I will, don’t worry,” Chrissie replies.

“Alright, then.” Nadia takes a step back, feasting her eyes on Chrissie’s body. She is, in fact, wearing lacy lingerie; a gauzy confection of midnight blue that pretty much takes Nadia’s breath away.

“Well?” Chrissie asks, a little impatiently. “Are you actually going to do anything, or are you just going to stand there and look at me. Assuming you are, in fact, looking at me.”

“I am looking,” Nadia says softly. “And I very, very much like what I see.”

“Glad you approve,” Chrissie says, and Nadia can hear the smile in her voice. She slowly prowls around Chrissie, letting her eyes roam freely, but not yet laying so much as a finger on her. Chrissie turns her head, following the motion. “So, what now?” she asks, with some asperity. “Because I’m not going to be able to hold my arms above my head like this for much longer.”

Nadia pauses for a moment, checking positions and relative angles, then moves so she’s standing in just the right spot.

“Remember when I mentioned throwing you onto a horizontal surface to have my way with you?” she whispers in Chrissie’s ear.

Chrissie twitches a little, but before she can say anything, Nadia pushes her down onto the sofa. The jeans tangled around her legs mean that she can’t stop herself from toppling, and the T-shirt pinning her arms means she can’t catch herself, but Nadia makes sure to guide her fall so that she lands gently on the soft cushions. She makes a little startled noise as she ends up sprawled on her back.

“Comfortable?” Nadia asks. “Anything cricked or pinching or cramped?”

“I’m fine,” Chrissie says faintly.

“Good.” Nadia settles herself on the sofa, straddling Chrissie’s legs. “Still okay?”

“Yes.”

Chrissie’s breathing is fast, the rapid up and down movement of her chest drawing Nadia’s attention to her lace-clad breasts. Nadia reaches out and caresses them through the flimsy material, then pulls down one of the cups and takes the exposed nipple into her mouth, sucking gently. Chrissie moans, the sound trailing off disappointedly when Nadia releases her nipple so she can speak.

“I love the sounds you make,” she says, shifting back a little so she can trail her hands down Chrissie’s stomach to her thighs.

“The ones you make aren’t so bad either,” Chrissie says, her lips curving in a small smile.

“You know, something occurred to me earlier,” Nadia murmurs. She slips a hand between Chrissie’s legs, letting her fingers rest ever so lightly on top of her lacy panties.

“What’s that?”

Nadia strokes her fingers back and forth, still keeping only the very lightest contact, hoping that it’s at least half as maddening as some of the teasing Chrissie subjected her to. Turnabout is fair play, after all. From the faint whimpering noise that escapes Chrissie’s lips, the tactic doesn’t seem to be ineffective.

“I really want to make you scream.” And even though she knows Chrissie can’t see it, she smiles, dark and fierce, stilling the motion of her fingers but keeping them where they are. “Eventually.”

* * * * *

**Present: Natasha**

Chrissie does scream.

Eventually.

And they do make it all the way to the bedroom.

Eventually.

And, eventually, they lie together, naked and sweat-slicked and panting; a spent tangle of limbs amidst a nest of rucked and twisted sheets.

Nadia knows she’s in good shape — it’s a particular point of pride for her, given her largely sedentary occupation — but even for her that was strenuous. She wasn’t quite expecting Chrissie to give her quite so much of a workout. Not that she’s complaining. And she consoles herself with the fact that Chrissie is panting more than she is. She thinks about propping herself up on her elbows, then settles for just rolling over onto her side so she can see Chrissie’s face.

Unexpectedly, she feels a pang at the sight, at Chrissie’s hair spread out every which way on the pillow, at her blown pupils and the expression on her face that somehow manages to be both slightly startled and *extremely* satisfied. She’s flat on her back, one arm flung out above her head and bent at the elbow, the other one hanging loosely over the edge of the bed. One of her legs is hooked over Nadia’s, the other drawn up slightly and bent at the knee. She’s staring up at the ceiling, but she turns her head slightly when Nadia moves, meeting her gaze.

“Did I wear you out?” Nadia asks, smirking.

Chrissie looks mildly irritated for a moment, but then laughs.

“Might’ve known that wouldn’t last long,” she murmurs, eyes twinkling with amusement.

“What?” Nadia asks, offended. “Are you saying that wasn’t enough for you? Because I’m game to go again if you are.” The languid heaviness of her limbs belies that statement, but she’s sure she can muster up the energy from somewhere. If nothing else, she can probably coast along on sheer stubbornness. It’s not like that hasn’t been the case under other circumstances.

But Chrissie shakes her head, laughing again, then clutching her stomach with the hand that was dangling over the edge of the bed.

“Ow,” she says, grimacing. “Please don’t make me laugh right now. I don’t think my stomach muscles like me very much at the moment.” She sighs softly, smiling at Nadia in a way that could almost be described as ‘fond’. “I was talking about this,” she says. Lifting her hand from her stomach, she reaches out to brush her thumb over Nadia’s lips. “That infuriating smirk of yours. I should have realised it wouldn’t be long before it made a reappearance. Believe me, I have no complaints about the sex.”

“Oh.” Nadia puts her hackles down, relaxing again. “That’s alright then.” Before Chrissie can take her thumb away, she presses a kiss to the pad of it, then scrapes it lightly with her teeth. Chrissie shivers, apparently not completely spent just yet.

“Could you really go again right now?” Chrissie asks, sounding part curious, part exhausted and part… interested. That last makes parts of Nadia sit up and pay attention, and she’s about to *show* Chrissie just how ready and willing she is… but then, without warning, she yawns massively.

Belatedly clapping a hand over her mouth, she gives Chrissie a sheepish look.

“Well, maybe not just right at the moment,” she mutters. “But give me a few minutes to recover and-“

“Oh, thank god,” Chrissie interrupts, groaning. “Not that I don’t want to, but I think you damn near killed me. The spirit is willing — very willing — but the flesh just wants to lie quietly here for a little while and recover.”

Nadia grins.

“So, you’re saying I did wear you out?”

Chrissie narrows her eyes.

“I’m not the one who’s yawning,” she points out tartly, but then groans again, giving a rueful grin. “But I’m willing to concede that we’ve worn each other out.”

Nadia considers for a moment, and then nods once.

“Okay, I can live with that.”

She lets her head flop down again, aiming for the pillow but somehow ending up on Chrissie’s shoulder. Chrissie starts a little, and she wonders if she should move, but the thought of it seems like far too much effort right now, even with Chrissie shifting under her like a small earthquake. If *she* wants to exert herself to wriggle out from underneath, then that’s perfectly fine with her.

Except…

Except she’s not wriggling away, she’s rearranging herself so that Nadia can rest her head more comfortably, wrapping one arm around her in a loose embrace.

“Never figured you for a cuddler,” Nadia murmurs against her skin, giving another huge yawn. She wonders what’s wrong with her — sex doesn’t usually make her this damn sleepy.

(Romanoff frowns at this development. She wasn’t planning on actually falling asleep, especially after the earlier lapse in control, but she’s not sure she has a choice. There have been just too many nights of broken, unfulfilling sleep — too many nightmares snapping her into wakefulness — and even she has her limits. The darkness is pressing in at the edge of her consciousness, and suddenly it’s just too hard to fight it.)

“You’re the one who curled up on me,” Chrissie retorts, yawning herself. “I’m just trying to make sure you don’t get a crick in your neck. Too much effort to move you right now.”

“I could move,” Nadia insists, or tries to, the words emerging as a slurred mumble. She wonders when it got so dark in here, then realises that her eyelids have somehow drifted closed when she wasn’t watching. She tries without success to open them.

“Not sure I can,” Chrissie murmurs softly, then she’s yawning again, and that makes Nadia yawn again, and she’s just so warm and comfortable and satisfied that she just…

Drifts…

Off.

Into darkness.

But then…

*Light*.

Too much light, stabbing through her eyeballs like needles, and Anya tries to close her eyelids, but she can’t. The’s something clamping them in place, keeping them at the mercy of that blinding, piercing brightness. In fact, her whole body is held fast, pinned so tightly that she can’t even look down to see what she’s chained with.

Anya’s not normally one to panic, but she’s not ashamed to admit that she’s starting to freak out a little.

“Don’t struggle so much,” comes a bored female voice. “You’ll damage yourself.” She laughs then, a harsh bray of a sound, and mutters something that sounds an awful lot like: “That’s the doc’s job.”

“What’s going on?” she demands, or tries to; her voice higher-pitched and more tremulous than anything she’s used to hearing out of her own mouth. “Where am I?” She just doesn’t understand how she got here. The last thing she remembers, she was making her way through a shabby-looking manor-house on the outskirts of Paris, looking for the thing she’d been hired to steal. Clearly, the whole thing’s gone tits-up, but maybe there’s still a chance she’ll be able to talk her way out of this.

Maybe.

(Romanoff doubts that her captors have any plans to let her out of here unless it’s in a body bag. Fortunately, that was accounted for in the mission prep. So far, everything appears to be going according to plan.)

“Hello, Natalya.”

Natalya freezes, dragged all the way to the surface by that voice, *his* voice. It draws her forth as surely as hooks sunk deep into her flesh. That these ones are embedded in her soul instead doesn’t mean it’s any less painful. But it *can’t* be his voice. He’s dead, she knows he’s dead; she killed him herself years ago, even going so far as to behead and burn the corpse. Just to be sure. She’s never been the superstitious type — any tendencies she might have had in that direction were flensed out of her long, long ago — but for *him* she figured she couldn’t be too careful.

So how in the name of all that’s holy and unholy can he be *here*?

(‘He isn’t,’ whispers Natasha hollowly. There’s a roaring in her ears, like the sound of an oncoming storm. ‘He wasn’t,’ she says, trying to speak over the roaring that’s growing louder. ‘This isn’t what happened.’ It feels like she’s screaming now, the words ripped from her throat by the howling gale and carried away, never to be heard. ‘It’s just a dream…’ she whispers, and then she’s ripped away too.)

“I’ve missed you, child,” he says, and then something presses into the taut skin of Natalya’s belly; something sharp and cold. She knows without even looking that it’s a scalpel. “Now, let’s get started, shall we? There’s a lot we have to get through and we don’t have much time.”

She promises herself that she’s not going to scream, that she’s not going to give him the satisfaction, but she knows it’s a promise she can’t keep. She can hold out a long, long time, bearing the pain in stoic, unyielding silence, but she knows she’s going to scream in the end.

Natalya always does.

But that’s what the others are for.

* * * * *

**Present: Christine**

Christine thinks about leaving.

She’s planning on being out of here by morning in any case, so it probably makes more sense to leave now than to rely on waking up before Nadia. No muss, no fuss; that’s her motto.

She should leave now. Although maybe she should wait just a little longer; just enough time for Nadia to fall asleep properly. If she’s only dozing, she’s bound to stir when Christine extricates herself from beneath her. And isn’t *that* inconvenient? She really wasn’t expecting Nadia to curl up on top of her. Although, in hindsight, Christine doesn’t quite understand why she didn’t extricate herself then and there. What was she thinking, helping Nadia to ensconce herself more securely?

This really is highly awkward.

As is the fact that she just can’t stop *yawning*.

Thinking about it makes her yawn again. Nadia stirs and murmurs something indistinct. Well, that settles it. She *can’t* leave now.

No, better to wait a little while longer.

And maybe, while she’s waiting, she can just rest her eyes a little. Not sleeping, just… resting.

Just for a little while…

Just until…

Until…

Huh?

Christine startles awake, disoriented and muzzy-headed. For a moment, she doesn’t know where she is, but then it all comes flooding back to her. Meeting Nadia in the bar, going back to her apartment… And everything that came afterwards.

Pun not intended, but highly appropriate.

She wonders what time it is. Could be morning already? She still feels pretty tired, but that could be because she’s only just woken up. Between the bedside lamps — apparently they both managed to conk out without turning them off — and the thick curtains, she has no idea whether or not it’s still dark outside. Her phone is still tucked into the pocket of her jeans, wherever they ended up, but she vaguely remembers seeing an alarm clock on one of the bedside tables. Blinking the sleep from her eyes, she lifts her head to take a look, only to freeze as Nadia stirs beside her.

Beside? Not on top of? They must have disentangled themselves at point during the night. That’s going to make getting out of here easier, at-

Nadia stirs again, derailing her train of thought. She really seems to be thrashing around back there. Restless sleeper, or…?

Nadia mutters something low, angry and… Russian? It sounds vaguely Russian. One of those languages, anyway, and Christine is willing to bet whatever she’s saying includes several curse words. Some things can be understood even if you don’t speak the language.

Christine wonders what she’s dreaming about. Whatever it is, it doesn’t seem pleasant, not the way she’s thrashing around, grimacing and clenching her fists. Not to mention the Russian swearing. Or whatever language that is. All of a sudden, Nadia’s breath hisses sharply through her teeth, and her whole body language changes. She stiffens, back arching and bowing in a way that looks highly uncomfortable, and then she curls in on herself, like a child. Or like someone trying to avoid a blow.

Christine holds her breath, waiting — hoping — for Nadia to clench her fists again, to resume her angry Russian mutterings, but instead she just whimpers. The sound makes Christine feel sick to her stomach. She sits up on the bed, starting to reach for Nadia, thinking to wake her up, but then she pauses uncertainly. Are you supposed to wake people from nightmares? She doesn’t know. She doesn’t even know if Nadia would want her to. She really doesn’t know that much about her at all.

Maybe this is normal for her. Maybe she’ll wake up on her own. Maybe she won’t thank Christine for interfering; for seeing her so… vulnerable. God knows Christine wouldn’t want anyone to see *her* in such a state. But still…

She can’t just *leave* her like this!

She waits a few moments longer, still trapped in indecision while Nadia thrashes and writhes on the bed. Her jaw is clenched so tightly that Christine starts to worry that she’s going to hurt herself. And then she whimpers again.

Suddenly, Christine’s mind is made up. Whatever Nadia is suffering, she is *not* going to let it go on any longer.

“Nadia,” she says, but the word emerges barely louder than a whisper. She clears her throat and tries again. “Nadia.”

No response. She tries a few more times, each time louder than then one before until she’s practically screaming in Nadia’s ear, but she still doesn’t wake. That means there’s only one thing for it.

She gets down off the bed and, keeping the rest of her body as far away from Nadia’s thrashing limbs as she can, reaches out her hand and taps Nadia on the shoulder. The reaction is immediate. Christine isn’t sure she even sees Nadia move, but she suddenly goes from thrashing around on the bed, trapped in the grip of some terrible nightmare, to standing beside it, wide *wide* awake. She’s panting like she’s just run a race, staring at Christine like she’s never even seen her before, and something about the way she’s standing, about the way she’s looking at her…

Fear trails icy fingers down Christine’s spine.

“Nadia?” she says softly, uncertainly. “Are you alright?”

Nadia glances around the room; a quick flick of her eyes. And by the time she returns her attention to Christine, whatever Christine thought she saw in her eyes is gone without a trace. Maybe it was never even there.

“Hey, Chrissie,” she murmurs, and Christine would never have thought that she could be so relieved to see that smirk of hers again. It’s maybe not quite as pronounced as usual, but at least it’s there. “Fancy meeting you here.”

“*Christine*. Not Chrissie. I can’t believe you can’t even get my name right. It’s only two syllables!” But her heart isn’t really in the admonition. She studies Nadia surreptitiously. “Are you alright?”

“Aside from being up at the ass-crack of dawn, you mean?” Nadia turns to look at the clock, then groans loudly. “Not even that. It’s the middle of the fucking night.” She turns an accusing glower on Christine. “Why did you wake me up?”

Christine thinks about denying it; about saying it was an accident. Asking someone about their nightmares is personal. Messy. A potential minefield of awkwardness. Will Nadia really thank her for prodding at this? But, in the end, she can’t bring herself to just let the matter lie.

“You were having a nightmare,” she says softly.

“Oh.” She’s half expecting Nadia to deny it, or laugh it off with some sassy, snarky remark. But all she says is: “I hope I didn’t disturb you too much.” Turning away, she starts to straighten the bed, which is rather resembling a battlefield at the moment.

“No, of course not. I just…” But she trails off, not knowing what she’s *just*;not knowing how to complete that sentence. “Do you have them often.”

Nadia shrugs, not facing her.

“Occasionally. Not often.”

Yep, there’s the minefield. She *knows* she shouldn’t have asked. The sensible thing to do right now would be to change the subject, or at least to stop asking questions. Why spoil a perfectly good one night stand by opening up this can of worms? But even as she’s telling herself to let the matter drop, her traitorous mouth is asking:

“So, do you want to talk about it?”


	8. Chapter 8

**Present: Natasha**

In that first instant after being jolted out of sleep, Natasha doesn’t know where she is. Worse than that, she doesn’t know *who* she is; which skin she’s supposed to be wearing. What her *mission* is. In that moment of confusion, of weakness, the Widow surges forward. Always prepared for fight or flight — preferably the former, but she’s not stupid — she searches for threats, targets, anything to cast some light on why her heart is racing and her ears are ringing with the echoes of someone screaming.

(Her.)

But then Natasha sees Christine — really sees her, rather than just a potential threat/target — and the confusion lifts. She remembers who she’s supposed to be and what she’s here for. What the *mission* is. She briefly glances away from Christine, who’s looking more than a little freaked out right now, and tries to cloak herself in Nadia once again, to sink beneath her skin, but she can’t. Even Romanoff is nowhere to be seen right now. It’s just Natasha, and she feels *naked*.

In more than the obvious way.

But even in the throes of whatever the hell kind of malfunction this is, she’s still a goddamned professional, so she effortlessly switches to Nadia’s body language and speech patterns, smirking at Christine.

“Hey, Chrissie,” she says, because that’s what Nadia would say. She’s a little obnoxious like that. “Fancy meeting you here.”

Fortunately, she can engage in banter pretty much on autopilot, not least thanks to spending so much time with Clint, so that frees up some of her attention to prod at what’s wrong. Because something is definitely very wrong with her — she simply does not break cover like this. Not ever. Not even in her sleep. Which was clearly part of the problem, if not the whole of it. She never should have fallen asleep. But she was just so tired all of a sudden, and she hasn’t been sleeping right ever since…

Oh.

Ever since her last mission.

The one where she was expecting nothing more than standard physical duress and instead got something that could have come straight out of…

(the Red Room)

… that place she doesn’t like to think about. Not if she can help it. The place that made her what she is.

Apparently the experience has affected her — and is continuing to affect her — more than she thought. Just thinking about it… *Allowing* herself to think about it, rather than shoving it aside; locking Anya and Natalya and all the other brittle skins away in their boxes where they’re supposed to stay until and unless they become useful to her.

Thinking about it now… It’s making her gut twist, threatening to fill her mouth with bile. It doesn’t matter how clinical she tries to be about the experience, how detached she tries to make herself from what she *feels*, those hooks have sunk deep. Anyway, detachment has never really been her strongest suit, no matter how hard she tries to pretend that it is. The best liars, after all, are the ones that believe, truly believe, whatever it is they’re selling. And Natasha is one of the best liars in the business.

She needs to deal with this, but she doesn’t know how. Compartmentalising clearly isn’t working, but she needs to do something before it compromises her effectiveness (compromises *her*) any more than it already is.

And then Christine says those fateful words: “Do you want to talk about it?”

Her instinct is to say no. It always is, even (especially) with the SHIELD-approved therapists. Growing up, she was taught that weakness should be hidden away like the shameful thing it is. She’s never really shaken off those lessons. Sometimes it feels like they’re etched into her very bones, never ever to be forgotten or set aside. Not even when she’s with Clint, who she trusts as completely as she’s capable of trusting anyone.

(There’s a lot she’s never told him, and is never intending to tell him, about the Red Room. Among other things.)

And yet she hesitates, the automatic refusal hovering unspoken on the tip of her tongue.

She can’t tell Christine the truth, of course. That would compromise the both of them beyond repair. (When did Christine become that to Natasha, rather than Ms Everhart? When did she close that distance in her mind?) But she can tell her pieces of it, suitably obscured. She can make her confession obliquely.

Maybe that will be enough.

And if not, well, at least it’s a start.

* * * * *

**Present: Christine**

Christine thinks for sure that Nadia’s going to kick her out. That she’s just planted her foot squarely on one of those land mines, and any second now the awkwardness is going to explode out all over the both of them.

Because things just aren’t awkward enough already.

But, much to her great surprise, Nadia flashes her a weary, lopsided grin. “Only if you want to listen,” she says. “It doesn’t exactly make for a pleasant bedtime story.”

She finds herself smiling back, just as wryly.

“If I wanted pretty stories, I wouldn’t be an investigative journalist,” she points out.

Nadia nods like she’s conceding a point. “Fair enough. But I’m going to need something to whet my whistle. Want a drink? I’ve got coffee, various teas, hot chocolate and beer.” She looks thoughtful. “Maybe some vodka. But it probably tastes like paint stripper.”

“Isn’t it a little early for alcohol?” Christine asks, amused.

Nadia shrugs. “It’s probably early enough that it still counts as last night. If you want it to.”

Oh, what the hell. It’s not like she really has any more inhibitions to lose at this point, and she doesn’t have to be up particularly early tomorrow. Or today. Whatever.

“I’ll have a beer,” she says firmly.

“Living dangerously,” Nadia murmurs, her amusement in her eyes.

She crosses to the bedroom door and pulls down a couple of robes from the hooks there, throwing one to Christine. Catching it, Christine holds it up to reveal a tie-dyed silk confection that looks a little like it’s seen better days. It’s comfortable enough when she shrugs it on, if a little short for decency. But after last night’s activities, she doesn’t think there’s much point in worrying about being decent. Nadia’s robe is plain terrycloth.

“Let me guess,” Christine says lightly, following Nadia into the kitchen. “Only one of these actually belongs to you.”

“They both belong to me,” Nadia says firmly. “Possession is nine-tenths, after all.” She opens the fridge and pulls out a couple of beers, handing one to Christine. She doesn’t bother with glasses. “Let’s sit in the living room. It’s more comfortable.”

Christine’s face heats a little as she remembers the last time Nadia led her into the living room, and the use they made of the furniture. She isn’t sure she’s ever going to be able to look at that sofa without blushing.

Nadia, smirking like she knows exactly what’s going through Christine’s head, plonks herself down in an armchair — no, *the* armchair — patting the arm fondly. Feeling a little like she’s being challenged, Christine opts for the sofa, and tries not to get distracted by the memories.

They sit in silence for a few moments, drinking their beers. Nadia picks at the label of hers, like she did in the bar. She gives a soft sigh.

“So,” she says. “You want to know my deep dark secrets.”

Her tone is wry, of course, hinting at some secret amusement. But she seems unsettled, restless, shifting like she’s having trouble getting comfortable.

“Sure,” Christine says, keeping her tone neutral. “But only the ones you want to tell me.”

“Want is maybe a strong word,” she mutters, the words barely audible. In a stronger voice, she continues: “Okay. Fine, whatever. Are you sitting comfortably? Then I’ll begin…”

* * * * *

**Present: Natasha**

Nadia fancies she’s been doing a pretty good job of keeping her mortification hidden. Nightmares! What is she, a child? And waking up Chrissie on top of it. Although, come to think of it, she was kinda surprised to find her still here. She would’ve thought for sure that Chrissie would be doing the strut of triumph right now.

She refuses on general principles to call it a walk of shame. They’re two consenting adults having fun together. A *lot* of fun. What’s to be ashamed of?

But now she’s procrastinating.

(It was the beer, Natasha is amused to note. Not the alcohol itself, but the feel of the bottle in her hand; the certain knowledge that Nadia always drinks straight from the bottle. That she also drinks juice right out of the carton, despite attempts by various housemates and partners to break her of the habit. The knowledge anchors her, drawing Nadia back up from the depths to settle over Natasha like a well-worn coat. Or like the robe draped around her body.)

(It’s a relief to be back where she belongs. More or less.)

She takes a deep breath.

“It was during my gap year,” she begins. “Me and some friends were travelling the world. We went to all kinds of places; had a blast. Got lots of material for a whole bunch of articles and essays and projects. We were all media types of some sort or another, so this wasn’t just about living it up. It was research.” She narrows her eyes at Chrissie, sure she can see skepticism in her eyes. “It *was*,” she insists.

“I believe you.”

Nadia isn’t convinced, but she lets it go for the moment.

“Between us, we had a pretty good mix of eastern European and former Soviet bloc languages, so we decided to take a trip there.”

“I thought you were saying something in Russian,” Chrissie says, hesitantly. “When you were dreaming, I mean. But I wasn’t sure.”

“It probably was,” Nadia says. “My maternal grandmother was Russian, and she never spoke anything else when I was growing up. I’m probably not as fluent as I used to be, but it’s still in there.”

(All perfectly verifiable if Christine — Ms Everhart — decides to check up on Nadia’s background for some reason. Not that she really has cause to, but still. Just in case. This story’s also part of her background. Verifiable within the limits of feasibility. Paper and data trails are there, entry and exit records, etc. But the beauty of gap year backpacking is that, outside of travel records, a lot of it simply doesn’t leave all that much of a trace. It makes that kind of thing a lot easier to fake.)

“So, for various uninteresting reasons, we ended up cooling our heels for a while in some small town in the sticks. There wasn’t a lot to do, so we got pretty bored. There’s only so much vodka you can drink, you know? So many times you can screw each other’s brains out.”

“All of you?” Chrissie asks, raising her eyebrows.

“Various combinations.” She waves her hand dismissively. “But it’s not important. Since we were bored, we thought we might as well do some poking around to find something interesting to write about, photograph or film. But when we did that, we ran into some people who didn’t like us running around poking our noses and our cameras into their business. People who had things they wanted to hide.”

“What things?” Chrissie asks.

She’s leaning forward a little in her seat; the lesser spotted investigative journalist on the scent of something interesting.

Nadia shrugs.

“Drugs. Various criminal activities. I don’t know for sure. We weren’t even investigating them. We were doing a project on-“ She breaks off, shaking her head impatiently. “I guess that doesn’t matter. But then they warned us off. Threatened us.” She shrugs, giving a smile that feels as sharp as broken glass. “So, being the stubborn idiots that we were, we decided to try to find out what they had to hide.”

(None of this is remotely close to the details of Natasha’s last mission: going undercover as a thief; taking a job with the intent of getting caught. All the better to carry out her particular brand of interrogation. That doesn’t matter, though. The only thing that matters is that telling this story gives her the chance to talk about how she’s feeling.)

Chrissie sucks in an audible breath.

“That sounds…” she starts, then trails off as if she’s not sure what to say. Or as if she’s forcibly biting back her first response.

“Naive? Reckless? The most dumb-ass thing to do in the history of dumb-ass things?” Nadia salutes her with her beer bottle. “No argument from me. We were young, stupid and convinced that we were indestructible.” She feels her smile fall away, her face turn stiff and solemn. “Turns out we weren’t.”

(Natasha has never thought of herself as indestructible. She’s confident in her ability to survive a great many terrible things, to withstand all manner of duress, but she knows she has limits. Even so, she wasn’t expecting to end up living through one of her worst nightmares.)

“What happened?” Chrissie asks softly. She makes an abortive movement, like she’s going to get up and come over there, but then apparently changes her mind.

“They rounded us up and beat the shit out of us,” she says, her tone flat and devoid of emotion.

Her mouth feels dry all of a sudden, so she takes a swig of her beer, swilling it around her mouth before swallowing. It doesn’t help. It doesn’t help at all.

(She was expecting a beating. Restraints. Hard men with hard eyes and harder fists asking her questions. Who sent her, what was she after, what did she know; and so on and so forth. The usual song and dance routine. But that’s not how it went. It turned out that the job was a set up. She was the real target, not some high-tech doohickey. She’d immediately assumed that her cover had been blown, but that wasn’t the case. They didn’t know she was SHIELD; didn’t even know that she was the infamous Black Widow. They were just looking for people who matched a particular profile and, apparently, ‘Anna Muratova’ fit the bill.)

There’s sympathy in Chrissie’s eyes, and it looks like she might say something, but Nadia all of a sudden doesn’t want to hear it. Not now. Not yet. Not until she’s finished. So she continues all in a rush, the words bubbling up inside her like they want to come out, like they *want* to be free, and she couldn’t keep them back if she tried.

(Initially, she thought there’d been some kind of screw-up on their part; a false-positive, maybe. Something she could talk her way out of. But then she figured out what they were looking for, and she knew that there was no way they would ever let her go.)

((The Red Room again; the scientists and doctors with their knives and their needles. All those people plying their craft in the service of making her ‘better’. Making all of them better.))

((One way or another, that place made her what she is today. For better *and* for worse.))

“It was bad. It was… I’ve always been pretty fit, and I’ve taken self-defence classes, and I thought I knew how to handle myself, but these guys… They were professionals, and we were just college kids. We didn’t have a chance.”

(Not only was Natasha was missing vital information, but her whole mission hinged on letting herself get captured. She didn’t have a chance. She knows that, knows there’s no point in blaming herself for variables that were outside her control, but she still wonders if there was something she could have done. Something she missed. But from what SHIELD has pieced together after the fact, it’s clear that the people she was directly working with didn’t know about the double-cross. They were in the dark as much as she was.)

(Especially the ones that were also targets.)

“It just seemed so ridiculous, you know? We were no threat to them. If they hadn’t warned us off in the first place, we wouldn’t even have started investigating them. Investigating. Ha!” A harsh laugh forces its way out of her still-parched throat, burning like acid. “We were children playing a game,” she says bitterly, swallowing the laughter back down again.

(Natasha can appreciate the humour in the fact that she practically offered herself up to her captors on a platter. More or less. But then, that was the plan. She wasn’t to know that the game had changed.)

“Afterwards, when we’d recovered enough to walk and talk — well, when some of us had — we tried to report what had happened to the police.” She grimaces. “That was a mistake.”

(She kept her cover. Even when she realised that this wasn’t going to be just a common or garden interrogation. When she realised that she wasn’t a prisoner, she was a test subject. A *lab rat*. They all were, all of them special in their own little ways, all of them specially chosen for this. But she was the only one of them who had the context to figure that out right from the start.)

(Not that their *handlers* kept them in the dark for long.)

She can’t say it. (She can’t face the next part, not without help.) Not without prompting. She looks a little helplessly at Chrissie, who’s so still she might as well be a statue. But she either figures out what Nadia needs from her, or she’s following her own compulsion to fill silence with questions.

“I take it they weren’t much help?” she asks softly, and that’s the push Nadia needs to dredge up the next part. (It’s something for Natasha to hang onto; an anchor to stop her getting swept away by the memories.)

“Worse than that,” she says, grinning mirthlessly. “They were being paid off by the same people we were trying to report. So, not only were they about as much use as a chocolate teapot, they alerted the gang that we weren’t being good little girls and boys and keeping our mouths shut. The gang… were not best pleased with us.”

(Natasha had had a decision to make. She could have tried to break out before they really started on her. For all that they kept calling her ‘special’, they really didn’t have any idea what she was capable of. And it’s not like she was entirely unequipped. There was a good chance she’d be able to escape. At the very least, there was a good chance that she’d be able to alert SHIELD to her location, calling in the cavalry. And the ordeal would have over.)

(But so would the mission.)

(She would’ve been prioritising her safety over the objective. In her judgement, not an advantageous trade. So, she made a different choice. She stayed where she was, played her role, and set out to gather as much information as she could.)

Nadia takes a deep breath, trying to keep her voice level.

“They came after us again, but this time they had guns.” She twitches her robe open a little, giving Chrissie a quick look at the ugly scar on her belly. “I took a bullet in the gut. Through the gut, technically. Nasty, but not immediately fatal. Obviously.” She sighs, letting her robe fall closed again. “Some of my friends weren’t so lucky.”

(Her fellow lab rats were mostly just kids. Some of them were older than her, but none of them had her particular kind of life experience. She tried to help them as much as she could — teaching them how to survive; drawing the attention of the doctors —handlers — away from them. Mostly she did it because that’s what Anya would do. And because she couldn’t stand by and do nothing. But her options were limited, and her efforts mostly came to naught in the end.)

“Oh, Nadia,” Chrissie murmurs, and suddenly she’s moving, setting her barely-touched beer down on the coffee table and getting up off the sofa. Crossing the living room, she perches on the arm of Nadia’s chair and starts to put her arm around her, then hesitates. “Is this okay?” she asks, a little awkwardly.

Nadia thinks about it. (Natasha isn’t really one for comforting hugs; either giving or receiving. But these aren’t exactly ordinary circumstances, and she thinks that maybe, just this once, she’s willing to give it a try.)

“Sure,” she says. She leans into the loose embrace, and it’s actually kinda nice, if a little weird. With a little effort, she even manages to dredge up something like her usual smirk. “You are *totally* a cuddler.”

“Am not!” Chrissie says, looking mightily offended. “You take that back.”

“Can’t deny the truth,” she says loftily. “I think the evidence speaks for itself.”

“Do I have to point out that *you’re* the one who used my shoulder for a pillow?” Chrissie says, narrowing her eyes.

“Accidentally. And you snuggled.”

“I didn’t want you to crick your neck!”

Nadia grins as the indignation in Chrissie’s voice. “Yeah, yeah,” she sing-songs. “A likely story.” But then her humour fades a little. “So, now you know the whole sordid tale. That’s what I was dreaming about. Aren’t you glad you asked?”

She’s kinda glad she can’t see Chrissie’s face right now; that she has no way of knowing what she’s thinking. She’s half expecting her to hightail it out of here like her hair’s on fire, so it comes as a real shock when she puts her hand on Nadia’s cheek and gently turns her head to kiss her.

“What was that for?” she asks a little breathlessly when her lips are free again.

(Natasha… wasn’t expecting that. And people don’t often manage to surprise her.)

Chrissie shrugs.

“Thank you for telling me.” A mischievous glint creeps into her eyes. “Although, I have to admit, the look on your face is an added bonus.” Nadia finds herself uncharacteristically lost for words, so she contents herself with a glower. Rather than being suitably chastened, Chrissie just cracks a smile, but that fades into a thoughtful expression as she studies Nadia’s face. “So, do you often have those nightmares?”

“Not often. Every once in a while.” She shrugs uncomfortably and nearly topples Chrissie off the chair arm. As they arrange themselves a little less precariously, Nadia finds her thoughts circling back on themselves, returning again and again to that fateful incident no matter how forcibly she tries to drag them away, onto pleasanter things. By the time they’re settled again, the endless spiralling has become a roaring vortex of emotion, building up within her until she just has to let it out. “I just felt so *helpless*.”

(Natasha just felt so helpless.)

(Even though the semblance of helplessness has become her stock-in-trade. Even though, on some level, it isn’t *just* the semblance of it. Even though it’s become a point of pride that SHIELD doesn’t think Agent Romanoff necessarily needs an extraction plan. Even with *all* of that, Natasha felt helpless.)

“There was nothing I could do. I tried, but I was so badly out of my depth I couldn’t even see the surface any more.” She shakes her head. “It was pathetic, really it was. I tried to tough it out, but I was absolutely terrified. I don’t think I’ve ever been so scared in my life, before or since. And… And…” She can’t find the right words. Maybe the right words don’t even exist. So she stops trying, just repeating, uselessly: “There was nothing I could do.”

(Natasha was afraid. And the only time she’d ever been so afraid — for real, not just for a mission — was back when she only had one name. When Natalya Romanova was nothing more than a feeble child, long before she grew up to become the fearsome Black Widow. Long before she became the Red Room’s first — arguably only — great success story. Let alone anyone or anything else.)

(Being there in that laboratory… It was like she was Natalya again. No matter how much she tried to hold them back, all those long-buried nightmares and memories came flooding back, fighting their way to the surface. And she was afraid it was going to happen all over again. That they’d take her from herself —whoever that is — and make her over anew; change her in countless little and not-so-little ways. And she was afraid that she would be helpless to stop it.)

(Pain, she can handle; has handled, over and over again. But this… This was something else.)

(This was *weakness*.)

“You know it wasn’t your fault, right?” Chrissie’s voice is soft but, mercifully, free of anything that sounds even remotely like pity.

That’s probably just as well. Nadia does not take kindly to being pitied. She shrugs lopsidedly, this time being careful not to jostle Chrissie off her perch.

“Yeah, I know. We did some stupid things, me and my friends, but those fuckers were the ones who resorted to violence. I do know that.” She lets out her breath in a great weary sigh. “Doesn’t mean I don’t wish I’d acted differently, though.”

(Natasha doesn’t tend to waste her time on regrets. She just takes note of anything she should do differently in the future, and then moves on with her life. You can’t change the past, so what’s the use in dwelling on might-have-beens and never-weres? But she just can’t shake off this last mission, no matter how much she tries. She knows that whole clusterfuck wasn’t even remotely her fault. She knows that she completed her mission despite the shift in parameters, that her work, her *suffering* has yielded real, actionable intel. Technically, it counts as a success.)

(So, why then does it feel like a failure?)

(It just doesn’t make sense.)

“I can understand that,” says Chrissie. She’s quiet for a moment, and Nadia allows herself to enjoy the warmth of Chrissie’s body pressing against hers, the reassurance of the arm wrapped around her shoulders.

(It’s not nearly the same as being in Clint’s arms. Natasha can’t help making the comparison, even though she knows it’s fair to neither of them. This feels… peaceful. Being with Clint is many things, but peaceful isn’t usually one of them.)

“Have you spoken with anyone about this?” Chrissies asks cautiously.

Nadia laughs, and it doesn’t sound like it’s full of razor-blades and broken glass. She feels lighter, somehow. Freer. Maybe that’s why people talk about ‘unburdening’ themselves of their worries.

“Yeah, tonnes of people, don’t worry. I practically had therapists and counsellors coming out of my ass back then.”

“Thanks for that mental image,” Chrissie murmurs, sounding a little put out. Nadia’s smile broadens.

“My pleasure,” she says cheerfully. The smile fades a little, but doesn’t disappear altogether as she continues. “But, more seriously, I’ve talked about it a *lot*, with a whole bunch of people, and it really helped me. Plus, it was a very long time ago. Aside from the odd nightmare now and then, I’m fine. You obviously just caught me at a bad time.”

(Natasha isn’t fine. She knows that now. Talking to Christine has brought her the clarity she needed to be able to see the situation for what it is. She’s not fine, but she thinks she knows what she’s going to do about it.)

((Having reached a resolution, Natasha fades back again, letting Romanoff step forward to resume the the mission.))

Chrissie studies her thoughtfully, but all she says aloud is: “Okay.” She hesitates, then adds. “If you decide you do want to talk, you can always call me.”

“I could if I had your number.”

“I don’t know it off the top of my head, but I’ll look it up when I get to my phone.”

Nadia wonders if she really will. And if Chrissie does follow through, she wonders if she’ll ever actually contact her. To talk, or for something more physical.

She thinks perhaps she might.

(Romanoff notes that there’s no harm in having a straightforward avenue of communication, should she need to call on Everhart’s journalistic talents. For the moment, however, she has a mission to complete.)

“So,” Nadia says decisively. “This has all gotten way too serious. What do you say we change the subject?”

Chrissie quirks an eyebrow at her. “Did you have anything particular in mind?”

Nadia thinks about it, running her fingers absently — okay, maybe not all that absently — along Chrissie’s thigh as she considers.

“Well, there is one thing,” she says, her voice low and sultry. “If you’re up for it.”

“What is it?” Chrissie’s voice also seems to have gotten a little husky all of a sudden. Fancy that.

“I was wondering…” Nadia murmurs, bending to press a gentle kiss to Chrissie’s shoulder, bared by her slipping robe.

“Yes?” Chrissie asks, shifting position a little.

Nadia smirks.

“How did you figure out that Stark was Iron Man?”

* * * * *

**Present: Christine**

Christine can’t help the pang of disappointment that goes through her at Nadia’s words. She thought that… Was hoping that…

Well, fine. If that’s the way she wants to play it.

“What makes you think I figured it out?” she says, stroking Nadia’s bare calf with her toes.

Nadia rolls her eyes, but Christine can feel the way she twitches, and lets her lips curve in a satisfied smile. Sauce for the goose is sauce for, um, the other goose, and she thinks she’s more than proved her credentials in this particular game.

“Oh, please,” Nadia scoffs, and Christine starts a little as there’s suddenly not even the thin material of her robe protecting her sensitive skin from those questing fingers. “I’ve got eyes and ears. It was obvious from that press conference that you were setting him up.”

“If you say so,” Christine drawls dismissively but, truth to tell, she’s not exactly displeased. She told Olivia — and she firmly believes — that she is not the story. But Nadia’s clear admiration is something of a balm after the sting of seeing all her hard-work eclipsed by one night of fun. (She should have heeded the advice she’s dished out so many times before and not read the comments. Really. Nothing good was ever going to come of reading the comments.)

“I do say so,” Nadia states firmly, her fingers inching slowly higher. “Now, spill.”

Well, when she puts it like that…

Anyway, where’s the harm in telling her? She’s only one person, and even if she does decide to publish something on her blog, it’s only going to help Christine’s reputation as a serious journalist. It certainly isn’t going to harm it.

But she’s going to make Nadia work for it.

She meets Nadia’s gaze, a clear challenge in her eyes.

“Make me.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Present: Christine**

‘This,’ Christine thinks to herself with irritation. ‘Is why I make sure I’m gone by the time they wake up.’

Her finger hovers over the ‘send’ icon on her phone while she tries to decide if she really wants to send this text. It’s not like she hasn’t exchanged numbers with a one-night stand before. Rarely, admittedly, but it has happened. She’s even contacted some of them afterwards. Hell, that’s even how she met a couple of her ‘friends-with-benefits,’ and at least one just plain friend. (No benefits included. They both agreed it was better that way.) Really, what’s the worst that could happen? That Nadia doesn’t text back? No contact was the default option anyway. If that was the case, Christine is pretty sure she’ll be able to just shrug and get on with her life.

Okay, maybe she’ll be a *little* bit disappointed. Nadia turned out to be intriguing, and she really wouldn’t mind getting to know her a little outside the bedroom. But still. She’s survived worse disappointments before, and doubtless will do so again.

What does she lose by making the attempt?

Her mind made up, she stabs the send icon before she can change it again.

There. Now then ball is firmly in Nadia’s court. All Christine has to do is go about her day as usual. What she emphatically *isn’t* going to do is sit here staring at her phone, waiting for a reply. Not at all. She has things to do, places to go, secrets to unearth. She’s a busy woman.

So why is she still staring at her phone? She’s not a teenager!

She shoves her phone impatiently into her pocket and pulls out her laptop. While she’s on a roll, there’s an e-mail she’s been thinking of sending. By which she means she’s been sitting on the fence about whether or not it’s a good idea. After the way yesterday’s impulsive decision paid off, though, she feels a little like taking a chance.

After the text to Nadia, the e-mail proves to be surprisingly painless. In almost no time at all, she’s dashed off a few lines — it doesn’t have to be an essay after all; it’s just a simple invitation to lunch — and sent it off into the electronic ether.

There. She hopes Virginia will accept. It’s true that they didn’t exactly get off to an auspicious start, but both times they’ve interacted since then have been much pleasanter. She has a feeling that, potentially, if she manages to refrain from planting her foot firmly in her mouth again, the two of them have a decent shot at becoming really good friends.

Her phone buzzes while she’s basking in the afterglow of being a go-getter. (It makes her jump a little, but she’s not going to admit to anyone. Least of all to herself.) As she fishes it out, she tells herself sternly that it could be anything. That it isn’t necessarily…

It’s a text from Nadia.

Christine is a little surprised to find herself smiling a little as she reads the simple response.

A repeat performance, huh?

Somehow, she thinks that could be arranged.

* * * * *

**Present: Natasha**

“I’m impressed, Agent Romanoff.” Coulson pages through Romanoff’s report (as if he hasn’t already scrutinised it in minute detail, Natasha notes with amusement), then looks up at her with a faint smile. “I fully admit, I didn’t think there was much to be gained from following up with Ms Everhart. But you’ve proved me wrong.”

Saying ‘thank you’ doesn’t quite seem appropriate when he’s claiming fault. ‘Just doing my job,’ while perfectly true, has the disadvantage of sounding like false modesty. In the end, she settles for a neutral:

“I like to be thorough.”

“Indeed,” he says.

Overall, Romanoff is reasonably satisfied with the Everhart debrief. Aside from that unfortunate glitch — for want of a better term — it seems that she was right to trust her instincts in this case. It’s true that Everhart had little to offer that SHIELD didn’t already know regarding ‘Iron Man,’ although at least now they know that for certain rather than simply assuming. However, it transpired that she was in possession of other information relevant to certain of the organisation’s many and varied areas of interest. Some of it may even prove actionable. Certainly, the evidence suggests that she was right to want to cultivate Everhart as a contact.

If Romanoff ever allowed herself the indulgence of self-satisfaction, she feels that this would not be an inappropriate juncture to do so.

“Will that be all, sir?” she asks politely.

(Natasha is already thinking ahead to what she’s going to do when she goes off duty. Right at the top of her ’to-do’ list is: make a start on dealing with her current issues. There’s no time like the present, after all. She has a few options, but she has yet to make her final decision regarding which one to pursue.)

Coulson… hesitates.

Romanoff doesn’t frown, at least not visibly, but she immediately goes into alert mode. (Natasha has an uneasy feeling about this.)

“Actually, I was wondering if you had a few minutes to talk.”

“I don’t need to be anywhere right now,” she says cautiously. “What do you want to talk about?”

He sets his pad down, shifts position a little so that his attention is clearly focused entirely on her. It’s a clear signal, whether or not he intends it as such. It’s even odds whether he does or he doesn’t. Either way, it draws a clear line between what’s gone before, and what’s about to happen now.

“About you, actually.”

(Romanoff recedes into the background, letting Natasha take point on this one. This really is more to do with her area of expertise.)

Natasha doesn’t let herself give in to the urge tense in preparation for bad news. It pretty much has to be bad. When a handler wants to talk to an agent about themselves, that almost never leads to either of them feeling happier afterwards.

“Me?”

“Yes.” He smiles genially, invitingly, but his eyes are sharp behind the warmth. It’s not that she doubts the warmth. As far as she can tell, Coulson genuinely cares about the agents he handles, and not just in the sense of whether or not they’re up to the tasks required of them. Their wellbeing — physical, mental and emotional — actually seems to matter to him. ((Tasha sneers that it’s all an act. She and Clint are just tools to him. You care about maintaining a tool so that it doesn’t break when you try to use it. That’s all this is. That’s all this ever is.)) “How are things, Natasha?”

“What sort of things, Agent Coulson?” she asks brightly, with just a hint of sass. He gives her a faintly reproachful look, to which she responds with an expression of utmost innocence. Nadia, still lurking near the surface, wants to smirk insolently, but Natasha resists the urge.

“You, of course. I was enquiring as to your general wellbeing.” He quirks an eyebrow at her and adds, dryly: “I hear that such enquiries have become quite the thing in certain circles of society.”

“It’ll never catch on,” she deadpans.

“I like to think of myself as a trendsetter.” He regards her seriously now, and she knows she’s not going to be able to wriggle out of this one. Or, rather, she could, but then she might find that appointments with SHIELD therapists start mysteriously appearing on her calendar. “So,” he says, and he adds weight to his next words. “How are you?”

(Romanoff runs through her mental checklist of what she included in her report on the Everhart mission and concludes that there’s nothing in there that should give Coulson cause for concern regarding her mental state. It goes without saying that she made no mention of her temporary aberration and, as far as she’s aware, she wasn’t being recorded last night. Likely this is merely a generalised concern relating to possible fall-out from her last mission.)

She takes a few moments before she replies; actually thinking about the question this time, rather than just giving the appearance of it. Really, it all depends on what, if anything, Maria has told him. ((‘Probably everything,’ Tasha whispers spitefully. He’s one of *them* after all.))

“I’m fine, thank you,” she says, opting for a cautious approach. “How about you?”

“Overworked and underpaid, as usual,” he sighs. “And it sometimes feels like this job is not unlike trying to herd cats. But don’t change the subject.”

“I thought we were exchanging pleasantries,” she murmurs. She tries giving him a smile, but lets it fade away when he frowns sternly at her.

“This mission was your first time back in the field since the Paris operation, wasn’t it?”

“You know it was,” she says shortly, deciding against adding a very pointed ‘sir’ on the end of that.

“So, I’ll ask again: how are you doing?”

She looks at him steadily for a moment, then shrugs and relaxes her rigid posture with a sigh.

“I’m doing okay, I think,” she says quietly. “Being in the field didn’t bother me at all.” She gives him a wry grin. “Truth to tell, I think being benched was making me a little stir crazy. And I’m pretty sure I was driving Barton up the wall.”

He returns her grin with a faint smile of his own.

“You weren’t nervous, then?”

“No,” she says. ((It’s a lie. But Natasha believes it anyway, at least right now.)) She shrugs. “It wasn’t exactly a high risk operation and, like I said, I was just glad to get out there again.”

“I see.”

Coulson lets the silence linger, keeping his gaze on her as if expecting her to elaborate further. She waits him out, smiling inwardly while keeping her outward expression pleasantly neutral. One of these days, perhaps Coulson, and Maria, and all the other handlers and psychologists and who knows what else that SHIELD has at their disposal will stop resorting to techniques that don’t work on her.

((Tasha hopes not, because the alternative is them using techniques that *do* work on her, and the thought of that makes her skin crawl.))

When it’s clear that she has no intention of saying anything further, he sighs softly, looking faintly disappointed. ((Natalya cringes at even this mild hint of disapproval.))

“You seem well-rested,” he observes.

She doesn’t eye him sharply, because that would tell him he’s scored a hit, but inside she’s ((not feeling betrayed)) wondering what else Maria has told him. Because that surely has to be a reference to her recent trouble sleeping.

“The bed I shared with Ms Everhart was particularly comfortable,” she says pointedly, feeling malicious pleasure at the way he winces at the reminder of how exactly she got that information for SHIELD. (Romanoff thinks it’s a foolish reaction on his part. It’s just sex, after all. And the follow-up with Everhart was Romanoff’s suggestion in the first place.) “I’m thinking of getting one like it for my own place.”

“I see,” he says, again, then gives her a shrewd look. “For your information, I specifically asked Agent Hill for further details regarding her assessment of your fitness for field operations.”

“That’s certainly within your remit as my handler,” she observes cautiously, wondering if she gave herself away somehow, or if he’s just being perceptive. He does, she supposes, possess distinctly better than average powers of observation, especially when it comes to his agents. And he has been doing this a long time.

With a certain barbed amusement, she notes that it’s useful to be reminded every once in a while that, as good as she is — and she *is* good — she’s not the only one who’s skilled at reading people.

“She gave me only the details I needed to decide whether to assign you this mission,” he says, like he’s trying to reassure her that Maria hasn’t betrayed any confidences. She hates that he apparently does know her that well after all. ((But not as much as she hates the fact that it’s apparently working.))

“I would’ve thought that was all covered in her summary report,” Natasha says, her tone questioning rather than hostile. She does appreciate the fact that he’s trying to make this less unpleasant than it could be, and it’s not as if she can’t understand his concerns.

Coulson shrugs minutely.

“I like to make sure I have as much information as possible to base my decisions on. Summaries can often…” He pauses briefly, not really a hesitation so much as a moment of reflection, and then continues. “They can be lacking in nuance.” His second pause, however, is definitely a hesitation. “It wasn’t my intention to violate your privacy.”

“What privacy?” she murmurs, smiling to take the sting out of her words.

Most of it, anyway.

It’s not intended as a dig at Coulson, just an acknowledgement of the fact that SHIELD doesn’t tend to believe in privacy when it comes to the agents that carry out its objectives. Lip service may be paid to confidentiality, and boundaries, and lines that shouldn’t be crossed, but in Natasha’s experience it’s rare to meet a handler, or similar, who wouldn’t set that aside in a heartbeat if they wanted to. Which isn’t to say that exceptions don’t exist, but they seem to be few and far between.

But she believes that Coulson meant well, and so she relents a little, offering him an olive branch.

“It’s okay,” she says. “I know you just wanted to make sure I was ready.”

“Exactly,” he says, looking relieved. “I’m glad you understand.”

“I do.”

With Natasha’s response comes a new clarity. She’s made her decision, and now has a plan of action for when Coulson dismisses her.

It starts with paying Maria a visit.

What happens next is going to depend on her.

* * * * *

**Present: Clint**

“So…”

Tasha’s voice comes from behind him. Not right behind him — she’s good, but Clint’s no slouch in the perception department — but closer than anyone else would be able to get without him noticing. He’s a little impressed that she managed to open the workshop door without making a sound — the hinges always seem to squeal like a pig being slaughtered — but if he asks, he knows she’ll just tell him to figure it out.

He resists the urge to turn around, despite the way it makes the hairs on the back of his neck want to stand right up to attention to have someone at his back.

“You going to finish that sentence, or am I supposed to try to read your mind?” he asks. “Because, as far as I know, I’m about as telepathic as a rock.” He takes the time to finish what he’s doing, feeling her eyes on him the whole time. It’s a disquieting sensation. But… not entirely an unpleasant one. Grinning to himself, he makes sure to bend down a little lower than strictly necessary to pick up the small stack of perforated paper targets, stretching and flexing as he straightens up.

If she’s going to stand there and watch him, he figures it’s only good manners to give her something to look at.

Rolling up the targets and setting them to one side, he turns around to face her, leaning casually against the work bench.

“Hey, Tasha,” he says. “What’s up?”

He’s pleased to notice that she seems less tired than she’s been for a while. Not that she was dragging her feet or walking around with bags under her eyes or anything; nothing nearly so obvious. But he knows her. He knows when she’s not at the top of her game, and she hasn’t been at the top of her game since Paris.

Maybe all she needed was a mission. God knows he would’ve been climbing the wall if he’d been benched like that. Of course, if it had been him in Paris, he’d probably still be laid up in medical, recovering, which would have been infinitely worse than just being benched.

In any case, he’s glad she seems to be more like her old self. Even if he does have an inkling that she’s here to kick his ass.

She rolls her eyes, then glances over at the bench. “More tinkering?”

“Draw’s still not right on that new bow,” he explains. “I knew it was lighter than it should be, and now I’ve got some data for the geeks in R&D.” He snorts. “Just being picky, my ass. I swear, there’s just no craftsmanship any more.”

“Probably because you’re the only sniper around who prefers to use a bow and arrow rather than a gun,” she observes, smiling faintly. “They’re probably hoping if they drag their heels enough you’ll wise up and join this century.”

“I use guns,” he protests, not at all defensively. “I just prefer my bow. Anyway, I’ll have you know that archery tech has advanced *considerably* since the old days. It’s a bit more than wood, feathers, metal and gut nowadays.”

“Given the way you manhandle your bows, that’s probably just as well,” she sighs. “I mean, you do know that a bow isn’t meant to be a melee weapon, right?”

Clint gives an exaggerated sigh.

“Is that why you’re here? To criticise my choice of weaponry? Because you don’t hear me talking smack about your gauntlet-tasers, do you? Or your collar garrotte. Or any other of the various ridiculously lethal things with silly names that you keep stashed about your person.”

Tasha narrows her eyes at him, and gives a smile that shows far too many teeth.

“Keep talking,” she says softly. “And you might just find out what some of them do.”

But she’s not even trying to hide the amusement in her eyes, so Clint’s grin widens.

“Nah,” he says, shaking his head. “You wouldn’t kill me. I amuse you far to much.”

“Who said anything about killing?” she says softly, swaying towards him.

His pulse quickens at her approach, his stance shifting into something more centred, more balanced. His muscles tense minutely, but he isn’t sure yet whether it’s to reach for her or for a weapon. From the way her smile twists into a smirk, his reaction hasn’t gone unnoticed. Luckily, hiding himself from her has never been one of his priorities. Unlike some people he could mention — like a certain control freak not too far away from here — he’s fine with being an open book when he’s off duty.

Unless he’s hustling someone, of course.

“So,” she says again, coming to a halt just outside his personal space. “I hear you managed to get yourself into some trouble while I was busy with my mission.”

“You know me,” he says, shrugging easily. “I’m always in trouble with someone.” She looks steadily at him, saying nothing. “It’s nothing, really.” Still that silent, implacable stare. “You know what happens when I get bored,” he tries, giving her his best ‘what can you do?’ smile. Still nothing. But he’s not going to break. No matter how long she stands there, silently watching him. He’s not afraid of a little silence. And he *likes* being watched. He’s still a fucking carney at heart, for crying out loud! He thrives in the spotlight. So she can just… Just… “They had it coming!” he blurts out. “They were talking smack about you, being disrespectful. I couldn’t let that shit stand. You should have heard it, Tash! It was…” If anything, the weight of Tasha’s stare actually increases. “It was disrespectful,” he repeats, lamely.

“And so you decided to do something about it.”

“Decided is maybe a bit of a strong word,” he says ruefully, rubbing at the back of his neck with one hand. “It just kind of happened.”

“Just kind of happened,” she echoes, taking a slow step forward and tilting her head quizzically. “You didn’t think I could deal with it by myself?”

“It wasn’t that,” he says simply, hoping that she understands. “I know you can take care of yourself. You sure as shit don’t need me watching out for you when we’re not on a mission. I know that.”

She considers him thoughtfully for a moment. A lot of the time when it’s just the two of them, he can read her just fine. Whether because she lets him, or because they’ve risked their lives together — *saved* each other’s lives — too many times to count, he doesn’t know. Right now, though? He has no idea what’s going on behind her eyes.

“Go on,” she says, after a long-enough pause that he’s starting to scramble for something else to say.

“It was just…” He shrugs, a little uncomfortable about articulating what was going through his head. “There’s not a single one of those fuckers could do what you do, so where do they get off judging you for it? I’m just sick and tired of those *desk jockeys* second-guessing our every move; telling themselves they could do so much better when I know full well if they had to live with even a fraction of what we’ve seen and done, they would just *break*. And so I just kind of… lost my temper.”

Tasha’s still watching him, but now he can see understanding in her eyes, sympathy even. Not pity — never that — but he feels himself relax just minutely.

“You envy them a little, don’t you?” she asks.

He sighs.

“Not really. I mean, I wouldn’t trade my life for the world, and you and I both know I would make a supremely shitty desk jockey. But they have the freedom — the perspective — to look down from on high while we toil in the muck and mire, to see the whole picture, not just a part of it, and they go and *waste* it in such… such goddamn *pettiness*.”

“Why, Clint,” she says, smiling in that way she does when he’s managed to pleasantly surprise her. “That was almost poetic.”

“Yeah, well,” he mutters, shifting in place a little. “Don’t spread that around.” In his best T-Bird impression, he mock-growls: “I got a rep to protect.”

Tasha laughs.

“Clown,” she says, shaking her head.

“You take that back!” he says indignantly. “I did just about every job going, but I was *never* a clown. Clowns are fucking creepy.” But she’s already turning away, heading towards the door.

When she reaches the threshold, she pauses there, glancing back over her shoulder. “Coming? Or do you need to play with your weapons some more?”

“Nah, I’m good,” he says easily, gathering up his things. “Besides — I’m looking forward to hearing about your mission. Did the journalist have any useful intel? Was she hot? Are you gonna see her again? Did you- Wait.” He narrows his eyes, studying her as she looks back at him. “You *are* going to see her again, aren’t you?”

“Christine Everhart is a useful contact,” she says noncommittally, setting off at a brisk pace.

He matches her, reflecting that having longer legs than her can be useful on occasion.

“You are so going to tell me everything,” he says, laughing.

“Not much to tell.”

“Then it won’t take long, will it?”

She glowers, but doesn’t deign to reply. Clint chooses to take that as a victory. As they head through the needlessly labyrinthine corridor of one of SHIELD’s many basements, he considers his partner — his friend — thoughtfully.

Yep, this mission definitely seems to have been good for her. He’s looking forward to hearing all about it.

* * * * *

**Present: Natasha**

“Thanks for the rescue,” Maria says. She relaxes into her chair, a small, weary sigh escaping her lips. “If you hadn’t come and dragged me away, I’d probably still be arguing with that idiot.” She looks up at Natasha and grins broadly, the expression making her look younger than her years. “Did you see the look on Sitwell’s face? I thought he was going to have an aneurism.”

“I was certainly amused,” Natasha says. “I don’t think it even occurred to him that other people have priorities of their own. He looked like he couldn’t believe you were *actually* going to leave him sitting there when there was still so much he wanted to say.”

“I think,” Maria says dryly. “That his apoplexy probably had a lot to do with the fact that the infamous Black Widow was the one coming to fetch me. He probably assumed it was a meeting with Fury. God, it must be driving him spare, trying to figure out what it’s about. And if he investigates and, of course, finds no evidence that such a meeting ever took place, that’s only going to add to his paranoia.”

“I could arrange for evidence, if you want,” Natasha offers. “Make it look like someone had tried to erase it, but missed a bit here and there. Bonus points if he actually asks Fury about it. Who will of course deny it, which will only make Sitwell even more paranoid.”

“Tempting,” Maria says. “But no, thank you. I do actually have to work with the man, you know.”

“I know,” says Natasha, with feeling. “Trust me, I know.”

She hasn’t had many ops with Sitwell as her handler, but they were more than enough. The man’s a damned *micromanager*. After one particularly egregious near-clusterfuck — averted only by choosing to ignore his orders and do what should have been done in the first place — he tried to initiate formal disciplinary proceedings against both Barton and herself. Luckily, nothing came of it. And, happily, they were never assigned to Sitwell ever again.

Honestly, disciplinary proceedings would have been a more than acceptable price to pay for *that* outcome.

Natasha finishes mixing the drinks and pours them into the waiting glasses, adding a few finishing touches. By the time she’s done, Maria’s glass is sprouting a small forest of cocktail umbrellas, swizzle sticks and various other fripperies. Her own glass, she leaves relatively unadorned.

“I do hope there’s actual alcohol buried under all that,” Maria murmurs, raising an eyebrow.

“Oh, there is, don’t worry,” Natasha reassures her, settling into her own seat.

“Now the question is, can I get to it without poking an eye out?” It involves removing some of the adornments, but the answer to that question is, apparently, yes. After taking an initial, cautious sip — Natasha approves that caution — she sighs in clear satisfaction. “Oh, that’s good,” Maria murmurs. “That’s very good.” She looks up at Natasha over the rim of her glass. “Can you remind me — which mission was it where you went undercover as a bartender?”

“Tara Reilly,” Natasha replies promptly. “Three years ago; the Boston mission.”

Some people have a head for facts and figures, some have a memory for names, or places, or song lyrics. Natasha never forgets a skin.

“Right,” Maria says, nodding. “One of the good ones. We caught the bad guys and avoided collateral damage. No muss, no fuss.” She grins, raising her glass to Natasha. “And you learned to sling drinks like a pro.”

Natasha laughs, clinking her glass against Maria’s.

“As long as you have your priorities straight.”

“Damn straight,” Maria agrees. She takes another drink, making another pleased sound of appreciation. “I could definitely get used to having my own personal bartender. But I was wondering…”

“Yes?” Natasha’s been waiting for this question. She’s half-surprised it didn’t come earlier, but she appreciates the extra time she’s had to figure out how she’s going to answer it.

“You only invite me back to your place when you want to talk about something you can’t or won’t say in a bar and don’t want to discuss at work. So, what’s up, Nat?”

“Am I that predictable?” Natasha murmurs, smiling a little, but she knows she is. At least in this way, with Maria.

It’s how she draws her boundaries. Out in public, the two of them are just friends. Work colleagues who get on well enough to share a few drinks and shoot the breeze. Here, though; in private… They’re SHIELD again, but also not; Maria is a friend, but also a handler. When they’re here together, it becomes a liminal space, neither one thing nor the other, but with the properties of both. It becomes a place where Natasha can speak, maybe not completely freely, as she would with Barton, but freer than she can with SHIELD looming over her.

It’s still casting a deep shadow, but at least it’s doing so from some way behind her, rather than with her back pressed right against its wall.

“You want me to answer that?” Maria asks, wryly.

“No, not really.”

Natasha takes a breath, putting her thoughts in order. This is a big step. If she’s read this wrong — if she’s read *Maria* wrong — this could have serious consequences for her, both for right now and for the future. She doesn’t think she’s wrong, but there’s always that chance. So she takes a moment to be sure, really sure, that she actually wants to do this.

(But Nadia talked to Chrissie, and that worked out for the best. Sometimes you just have to take the chance. ‘Full speed ahead and damn the consequences…’)

Okay. She’s ready. Setting her drink aside — she’s never needed that particular brand of courage — she looks at Maria, her expression serious.

“I wanted to talk to you about the Paris mission.”

* * * * *

**Future: Christine**

Christine, like so many other inhabitants of New York — of America; hell, of the world — is glued to the screen, watching the footage coming live from Manhattan. It doesn’t seem real, somehow; like something out of a movie. An alien invasion. Here! The Battle of New York, they’re calling it, which probably isn’t the worst name they could have chosen, and isn’t it ridiculous that she should be thinking about what to call it when there’s an:

Alien!

Invasion!

Happening.

In.

New.

York!

Well. Has happened, technically. It all seems to be over now. The home team won, those alien… *things* collapsing like puppets with their strings cut after Iron Man flew a motherfucking *nuke* through the… space… portal… thing that opened up in the sky over the Stark Tower.

And that’s another thing: who the hell gave the order to nuke Manhattan? Or did Stark just happen to have one of those bad boys lying around in his workshop?

She… actually wouldn’t put it past him.

It’s just one of the many questions she plans on asking him — hell, all of his fellow… what were they calling themselves? Avengers. That’s it. Whatever they call themselves, she wants to interview them. All of them. Starting with Tony, because at least she has an in there. Assuming Virginia ever calls her back.

Not that she really blames her. She’s… almost certainly pretty busy right now, on account of Tony almost fucking *dying*. In a heroic fucking sacrifice like… like a bonafide superhero or something! Which, honestly, is not at all the way she would ever have predicted him biting the big one. She figured he was more likely to meet his maker trying some crazy stunt, or in a pile of booze and girls. One or the other. There was a rumour going around at one point that he really *had* died, but he showed up soon enough to dispel it, posing for the camera like a pro. Which, she supposes, he kind of is.

She definitely doesn’t begrudge him his moment in the spotlight. He’s earned it a thousand times over; all of them have. Even if some of them do seem rather more camera shy than Tony. Like that redheaded woman talking to…

Huh. That’s interesting.

Christine has a sudden, nagging sense of familiarity, like she’s seen the redhead somewhere before. Which is clearly ridiculous. Well, it’s not out of the realm of possibility that she could have just bumped into her on the street sometime, but it feels like something more than that. Something more… personal?

Maybe she just reminds her of something. Like now, standing a little way behind Captain America — Captain America! — as he tells the people of New York that they’re safe now, she turns to the rather battered-looking guy beside her and smirks, and it kind of reminds Christine of…

Wait.

Waitwaitwait.

Just wait a goddamn minute.

A sudden feeling of urgency crackles along her nerves like lightning, driving her to start searching for more footage, better camera angles; a close-up maybe. She skims through the footage, seeking out that redheaded figure, trying to prove to herself that she’s crazy, that she’s being ridiculous, that it’s just the adrenalin come-down coupled with a human tendency to see the familiar in the strange, except…

Except…

“Holy fucking shit!” she bursts out, staring with wide eyes at the image on her screen. Because that *is* her. It *is*; she’d bet her life on it. “Nadia Vance is a motherfucking *superhero*!”

And even as she reels in shock at that revelation, a part of her — cold, determined, and utterly fucking *furious* — is already making plans.

It looks like she needs to ask Nadia some questions…


End file.
